


Circinus

by MarieKavanagh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Black Family Drama (Harry Potter), Black Family-centric (Harry Potter), Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Pureblood fams are wizard aristos, Reconciliation, Sad Sirius Black, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Sirius Black as Padfoot, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Walburga attempts to fix her family, Walburga frees Sirius, Young Sirius Black, do not copy to another site, the black family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 97,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23559502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarieKavanagh/pseuds/MarieKavanagh
Summary: March 1984. Walburga Black sits alone in Grimmauld Place, accompanied only by her ghosts, a broken woman with little left to live for. The House of Black lays in ruins, it's members scattered, awaiting its inevitable demise. Until, one day, a Ministry owl comes tapping at her window, bearing news that offers a last chance to change the course of her life - and the fate of the Black family.Seizing the opportunity to free her son from Azkaban and secure him the trial he was denied, Walburga quickly finds out that three years in prison has done little to quell Sirius Black's rebellious spirit, and it is soon clear that he is not going to simply follow the plans she has so carefully laid out for him.As the impending trial approaches, both Sirius and Walburga must grapple with their broken relationship and stormy past - and Sirius himself must decide whether he will seize the chance of the freedom offered to him, or whether he will send himself back to Azkaban for the punishment he is so convinced he deserves...My take on the "Walburga gets Sirius out of Azkaban" scenario.
Relationships: Sirius Black & Arcturus Black, Sirius Black & Walburga Black, Walburga Black & Arcturus Black
Comments: 254
Kudos: 528
Collections: Harry Potter Fanfiction Favorites





	1. Chapter 1

** Prologue  **

**3rd November 1981**

Walburga Black breathed out a deep plume of smoke, adding to the almost foggy, too-warm air of the room. The dim glow of the lights gave an almost eerie feel, the drawn curtains forbidding almost any sunlight entrance to the enclosed darkness. And yet here, in this, on the surface, most unwelcome of first impressions, was where Walburga often found herself spending an afternoon these days.

The ladies' social club located at the more respectable end of Knockturn Alley was where she found herself spending most of her afternoons in recent months. The required admittance policy of untainted blood and more galleons than those of less-suitable blood status could spare ensured that she was only ever surrounded by suitable company - her fellow members of the Sacred Twenty Eight pureblood families - as she had been her entire life. Here she could sit, smoke, drink (tea, or something a little stronger if the need arose), and, if the fancy ever took her, partake in a chat with her fellow witches of a high standing. 

Not that it often did. 

The talk would often be superficial; rumours of marriage bargains between the children, reviews of the most recent functions and general chatter, with the occasional snide remark at someone's recent misfortune hidden within the depths of the outwardly pleasant talk. But shocking recent events had meant that talk was now almost entirely dominated with the fall of the Dark Lord, just a few short days ago, and yet with how tedious and droll the repetitive talk of the matter was becoming, it felt like an age had passed.

Such talk was tricky to navigate. There were those among them whose families had suffered greatly; the Malfoys had not been heard of since the fall of the Dark Lord, reeling from Lucius's arrest and pending trial. Walburga let out a sad sigh at the thought of her poor niece, Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black, who now contending with the task of rebuilding the fragile reputation of the Malfoy name for the sake of her infant son before she would be able to face the curious glares of the social set. Evan Rosier, currently thought to be on the run after resisting arrest, his poor mother. She had been neither seen nor reliably heard from since that fateful night just three days ago. Rumour had it that she was holed up in the Rosiers' bolthole, a little country park in far-off northern Wales, sheltering until the storm winds blew over.

Walburga could see across the room two of the Yaxley girls, flighty little things, barely out of school, who had been putting on quite a facade in the days just passed, loudly commenting disapprovingly on the misfortunes of the affected families, as though one of their own were not rumoured to be next on the Ministry's list to be snapped up for questioning. They were at it again now, barely suppressing judging smirks as they shared a copy of the Daily Prophet with several friends, huddled in a corner together, shaking their heads over something apparently rather interesting. And, oddly enough, occasionally daring to dart their pretty little eyes over to Walburga's direction as they gossiped. 

Walburga had no time for their immature dramatics. These were delicate times. It would not do to proclaim loudly in favour of one side or the other. There was always a chance of ending up on the wrong side. Quiet dignity was the Black way. Strong and silent, in spite of everything. 

  
Not that there was much left to be said for the Black name. Two years widowed and with her poor son dead far too young, Walburga Black was the last pillar of the Black dynasty. A single stead-hold enduring against the surrounding chaos that the pureblood elite of the Wizarding world now resembled, stoically and stubbornly keeping the dignity of the Black name alive against its now-inevitable demise. 

It wasn't her fault. She had done her best.

Walburga set her cigarette in it's silver holder down and took a sip of her tea through pursed lips. Strong, black and sugar-free, the hot, bitter liquid soothed her slightly as it trickled down her throat. 

Truth be told, she tried to keep these thoughts at bay. Some days a hot, strong tea was enough to reign in her wandering thoughts, but harder days, like today, required a stronger substitute. It had been noted by regular attendees of the Club that Walburga Black's tab contained a curious amount of brandy (discreetly added to her teapot prior to being served) than just simply Earl Grey, as of late. The serving staff were rarely known for their upholding of client confidentiality, but no one had the nerve to comment on what they knew to her face. 

It was ill-advised to cross Walburga Black, even on a good day. 

And yet, that was precisely what the girls with the newspaper seemed intent on doing. 

Walburga eyed them as they downed the remainder of their wine goblets and walked, practically tip-toed, over to her table, one of them clutching the irksome, politically-biased rag of a paper to her front.

"Mrs Black!" gushed one of the girls. Rosamund, was it? Or was this one Adelia? She never could tell them apart, both as frilly and flouncy as the other. 

"How lovely to see you" 

The girl's voices was sickly sweet, sugar practically dripping off her tongue as she spoke. 

Walburga disguised a grimace with another sip of her tea. She shuddered to think that her husband had once toyed with the idea of bargaining for one of the Yaxley girls as a wife for Regulus. Perhaps the Black line was better off extinct after all, lest it's descendants' bloodline be contaminated - watered down, weakened, by one of these simpering pieces of work. Thank goodness for small mercies. 

"Rosamund, Adelia" Walburga greeted them, each name directed at neither one nor the other, her voice plain but polite. "How is your mother?" 

"Oh she's very well, thank you" replied the one with the chestnut curls, fidgeting with the lace of her dress impatiently, clearly keen to get to the point. A sentiment Walburga shared. Her tea was getting cold. 

"And how are you, Mrs Black? I do hope you're coping" the blonde-curled sister added, an extra lump of sugar added to her voice so thinly-coated with what was perhaps meant to be read as... sympathy? 

Walburga fixed her stern gaze at the girl, smiling inwardly as the silly little thing couldn't quite meet her eye. Her mother had clearly ill-prepared her for confrontation with her elders and betters. But then, Imelda Yaxley herself had seldom ever been known for her wit, nor for anything else, for that matter.

"Coping, my dear? Whatever do you mean?" Walburga asked, allowing her head to tilt slightly to one side in feigned curiosity.

The girls looked from one to the other, a flash of uncertainly in their matching blue eyes, then back at Walburga. They must have caught wind of the "proceed with caution" threat under her otherwise civil tone.

It was the blonde who eventually spoke up. 

"Well, what we mean is, we just hope you're managing alright, what with the present situation - regarding your son" 

There was a second of silence which seemed to last an hour whilst Walburga decided how best to deal with the pang of pain that struck her chest, eventually deciding that another generous drag of smoke was the best means of squashing it back into its place, locked deep inside, never to be seen nor heard by anyone, not even herself. 

"My son is dead" Walburga replied, without emotion, flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette into the silver ashtray beside her teapot. "I hardly see how any present situation could possibly involve someone two years departed" 

The chestnut-haired girl (Walburga was sure this was the one that she'd once heard called Adelia, not the other way round) swallowed thickly, her mischievous edge faltering slightly.

Thankfully, her blonde sister still possessed a scrap of nerve to offer. 

"But Mrs Black" she began, her syrupy voice feigning innocent politeness. She placed the copy of the Daily Prophet she had been clutching to her lap onto the table in front of Walburga.

"Isn't _he_ your son?" 

Walburga slowly lowered her gaze to the paper before her and bit back a sharp intake of breath that nearly threatened to reveal her shock at the photograph on the front page.

The front page of the Prophet bore the enormous headline:

 _"_ _MIDNIGHT MASSACRE: THIRTEEN DEAD - TWELVE MUGGLES, ONE WIZARD. SIRIUS BLACK ARRESTED"_

Below the huge, bold lettering was a photograph of a man. His face was young and handsome, but it was contorted by a mixture of screaming and laughter in a way that erased any suggestion that this was a man in possession of a shred of sanity. His long, black hair hung in tangles around his eyes which were wild, manic, empty. 

Walburga didn't need the sepia-toned photograph to be in colour for her to know that those manic eyes were a particular steel hue of grey. A relatively rare feature amongst the wider Wizarding gene pool but a trademark feature of the Black bloodline - a mirror of her own eyes.

The witch stared down at the photograph, her expression blank, her body rigid with control. 

The Yaxley girls glanced from one to the next, then back at the aged, stone-faced witch in front of them, whose storm-grey eyes had yet to tear themselves away from the photograph placed before her. 

"Well?" the chestnut girl pressed, her nerve apparently returned to her. "He is your son, isn't he?" 

Walburga stared down at the photograph. The man - no, the boy, for underneath the outer madness was someone far to young to really be called a man - stared back at her, his manic expression jeering up at her, mockingly. 

This was not her son. This was a parody of what had once been her son. But that Sirius Orion Black had ceased to be her son when he'd fled the family home through his bedroom window in the dead of night was clearer to her now, looking down at this photograph of him thrashing about manically as he was being dragged into a prison cell, than it had ever been before. 

"I have already told you" said Walburga to the girls, her voice low and dangerously calm. "My son is dead"

She spoke with a sense of finality that clearly allowed no room for negotiation, evident even to these two dim-witted young fillies. 

The Yaxley girls watch in tense silence as the older witch stubbed out the last of her cigarette and pocketed her silver cigarette holder into her purse. 

Walburga got to her feet and smoothed her robes before giving each girl a small nod in farewell.

"Good day to you both" said Walburga, primly. "Give my regards to your mother" 

The girls did not reply, not that the elder witch had given them ample time to offer one before she turned and marched away from them towards the door.

They watched as the once-notorious Walburga Black swept away, the eyes of every witch in the room trailing after her as she passed them by on her way out. 

Rooms once-occupied by the Black matriarch were much used to hushed mutterings that filled them following her departure - once it had been envy, respect, even jealousy.

But now those whispers carried only pity. Pity for the queen of a kingdom on its last legs, crumbling around her, left with nothing but the company of her ghosts as she waited for the fate of the Blacks to claim her too.

* * *

** Chapter 1  **

**5th March 1984**

The pecking of the beak of an overly-eager owl at the windows of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was a rare sound. So rare, these days, that Walburga Black had at first been slow on identifying what the noise was, mistaking it for merely being the crackling of the flames in the fireplace of the small library, the lone noise that filled the otherwise-silent room in which she passed by the afternoon.

  
But, sure enough, when she glanced over to the tall front window, Walburga was met with the sight of an elegant tawny owl staring at her, its beady black eyes shining in the reflection of the glass. It's wings flapped urgently as it's beak tapped against the glass incessantly, hopping up and down on the window ledge on the foot that was unbound to a wax-sealed scroll. 

  
Once, in days gone by, Grimmauld Place was used to a regular flurry of owls coming and going from its windows; the sending and receiving of correspondence between family and friends, invitations and their replies, official documents making their way to the appropriate wizard in search of a signature. But in recent months and years, precious few letters were delivered to the home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and even fewer were sent out into the skies from within it. 

  
And so it was with a sense of somewhat suspicious curiosity that Walburga made her way over to the window to relieve the anxious little creature of its burden. 

  
She unlatched the window, grimacing at the sharp creaking sound it made as it swung open - she must get the elf to oil the hinges, the job had clearly been neglected due to lack of need to open the windows - and quickly untied the scroll from the owl's outstretched leg. 

  
"You needn't think you'll get anything from me" she said, fixing the owl with a stern glare as it cocked its head up at her expectantly, hinting for a tasty tip for his trouble. "You may as well be on your way. I don't keep bird seed" 

  
At her words, the owl gave an indignant hoot and a flap of its wings in her direction before it took flight, soaring off into the cool, early March air. 

  
A shiver ran through Walburga as the outside breeze brushed over her. She closed the window and drew the deep red curtains shut, leaving the room in the warm, hazy glow of the fire and candlelight, shielded from the outside world. 

  
Returning to her desk, she examined the was seal of the letter - a large letter M stamped into the wax with a lit wand running through it. 

  
The Ministry of Magic. 

  
What cause could those nosy fools have to be writing to her? 

  
As she unfolded the letter and began to run her eyes over the contents of the letter, Walburga felt every ounce of warmth instantly drain from her body, leaving her with an overwhelming urge to shiver in the warmth of the drawing room. 

  
_Dear Mrs Black,_

  
_It is with regret that I must write to you today to inform you of the current condition of your son, Sirius Orion Black, incarcerated within the prison of Azkaban._

  
_On 4th March 1984 we received intelligence from Azkaban stating that your son is suffering from a severe case of fading fever, an illness for which there is no currently known cure. Reports from Azkaban state that Sirius's condition has quickly deteriorated and that he is not expected to survive for more than a week or so._

  
_As a gesture of goodwill, I would like to extend an invitation to yourself for the opportunity to visit your son in Azkaban before his passing. I hope that this will be of some comfort to you._

  
_Please be advised that, for your own well-being, the ability to confidently cast and maintain a corporal Patronus charm is essential in order to visit the island._

  
_We will await your answer by owl no later than six o'clock on the evening of 7th March 1984. Should you accept the offer, we will respond with the relevant information in due course._

  
_Please accept our condolences for your loss._

  
_With sincere regards,_

  
_Marcus Wilson_

  
_Deputy Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement_

  
There was a slight shake in Walburga's hand as she lowered the parchment down onto the desk. She stared at it for a moment, breathing deep and slow as its information worked its way through her mind. 

  
Sirius was ill. Dying. Her son-

  
No. Not her son. The Sirius Black languishing in Azkaban prison was the criminal who's crazed eyes had glared up at her from the newspaper photograph three years ago - a madman, a murderous maniac. Not her son. 

  
So if the person dying in Azkaban wasn't her son, why were there angry tears beginning to form in her eyes? 

  
Walburga wiped her palm furiously over her eyes, ridding herself of the traitorous tears. She had no business feeling sorry for him. Her son had ceased to be her son the night he had stolen away from his family in the dead of night at the age of sixteen, all those years ago - fled the house he had been born and raised in and was destined to preside over one day on the back of a broomstick. He had abandoned his family, duty and inheritance. 

  
Walburga's heart still twisted with hurt anger when she thought of her firstborn's treachery. He had thrown everything they had ever given him back into their faces, had hidden himself away in the house of the blood traitor Potters and hadn't even seen fit to leave them a note of farewell, of explanation, or even to reassure them he was safe...

  
Five years was a generous amount of time to perfect a skill, and Walburga had been sure to carefully hone her ability to block all thought of her firstborn out of her mind. In a family which took matters of betrayal as seriously as the Blacks did, there was little outside influence to remind her of him. All mention of Sirius Black amongst the family was an unspoken topic, unconsciously understood to be forbidden. In the days immediately following his departure, there were worried glances in her direction, there must have been occasional sympathetic or critical whispers (not that any were bold enough to reach her ears), but aside from this there was little distraction from Walburga's new reality. 

  
All thoughts of Sirius Orion were locked away, far-off and unreachable in a deep corner of her mind, the door locked and the key mangled, lest they be unleashed to wreck havoc upon her again.   
And yet, the words scratched into the offending piece of parchment before her in emerald ink had somehow twisted themselves together to form the key to unleash them all once again. 

  
Walburga sighed, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her temple wearily. She glanced, absent-mindedly, around the drawing room, devoid of occupants except herself, as it had been for nearly five years. There were times in which she rather appreciated the solitude. And there were times in which she did not. 

  
It had been several months since Walburga had last welcomed a visitor into Grimmauld Place. The various remaining members of the Black family were scattered throughout their various residences across the country. Should an invitation to the main London house be extended to them, they would dutifully attend, but in the absence of summoning, they were quite content to remain away. 

  
Walburga Black did not make the most cheerful of hosts. 

  
Glancing at the letter on the desk one last time, Walburga raised her wand to it, sending it floating downward into the bottom-most drawer of the desk - out of sight, out of mind. 

  
Supposedly. 

  
She stood from the desk and made her way towards the door, pausing by the mirror on the wall to double-check her reflection. Tired, care-worn grey eyes stared back at her, the skin at the corners creasing like crows' feet. She carefully tucked a lock of hair threatening to break free from the confines of her hair pins. She sighed a little at the occasional streak of silver marring her otherwise jet black hair. At fifty-nine, age was beginning to claim her for its own, as it did everyone. 

  
"Kreacher!" she called sharply into the empty silence of the hallway. 

  
Seconds later, her faithful house elf and sole companion in the house appeared before her, scurrying out from the kitchen. 

  
"I'll take dinner in the sitting room at seven" she said, peering down at the shrunken creature at her feet.

The rag-clad house elf bowed lowly in response. 

  
"Of course, Mistress" he mumbled obediently before hurrying back to the kitchen to prepare the food. 

  
Walburga had taken dinner on a tray in the sitting room almost every day for the past year, the formal dining room which was once kept spotlessly prepared for a lavish five-course meal every evening left empty, it's large oak table permanently draped in a dust-cover.

  
What use had she for a twelve-seated dining table anymore? 

* * *

  
Walburga tapped the dinner tray in front of her with her wand, vanishing it in an instant back to the kitchen to be dealt with by the elf. 

  
She leaned back into her chair and tapped the table where the remnants of her meal had been. Her silver cigarette case, holder and ashtray appeared before her. 

  
She quickly lit one, sighing as she breathed out the smoke of her first drag. This evening ritual relaxed her. Smoking had always relaxed her in trying times, right from her long-ago school days - sneaking out of particularly irksome classes to sneak a smoke in the girls' bathroom with her favourite cousin Lucretia. She had shed the habit after marrying - she hadn't felt it dignified for a married woman. Lucretia had disagreed, of course, defiantly kept up the habit all the way through her own marriage, teasingly offering her sister-in-law one of the cigarette from her own case with a cheeky smirk, knowing full well that she would be rejected with a haughty, disapproving glare. 

  
But now, in her widowhood, Walburga had rediscovered the old, familiar solace that the smoke brought her. It helped when times got hard - when the memories bit back too harshly. 

  
Crushing the empty stub of her cigarette into the silver ashtray, Walburga paced over to the table by the sitting room window on which a handsome crystal decanter of golden-hued whiskey sat gleaming in the candlelight. She poured herself a modest serving, as was her daily after-dinner routine. 

  
Before the night was out, she would have returned to refill her glass with several more modest servings, as was her daily after-dinner routine. 

  
Taking a sip of her drink, Walburga leaned against the window, peering out into the darkness of the evening. 

  
One of the beauties of Grimmauld Place's many concealment charms was that whilst one inside the house could look out into the street and observe the comings and goings, those passing by couldn't see a trace of the house's existence. 

  
Walburga often found herself stood here in this spot of an evening, observing the passers-by. They were Muggles, of course, of little real significance, and yet watching them going about their daily lives - hurrying along with heads bent down, scarcely aware of their surroundings, being pulled along the pavement by the lead of a dog, couples strolling arm-in-arm - was somehow relaxing, like watching local wildlife peacefully going about their day, oblivious to the trials and tribulations of the world of the knowing. One could allow one's mind to switch off, for a time. To be distracted from matters of greater concern. 

  
Except today, it wasn't working. 

  
Try as she might, Walburga just couldn't seem to shift the thought of the letter in her desk drawer out of her mind. It lingered, drifting back into the forefront of her mind each time she tried to firmly shove it aside. It simply would not be ignored. 

  
After three successful years of scarcely hearing her eldest son's name spoken in her mind's ear, Walburga could not escape the thought of Sirius. She could see him, so clearly in her mind's eye, languishing in a dark prison cell, shivering with cold, weakened, ill...

  
She blinked hard, giving her head a firm shake as she lifted her glass to her lips, taking a more generous sip this time. The fiery liquid burned it's way down her throat, but it did not extinguish the images playing over and over again in her head.

  
With a sigh, Walburga drained the remainder of her drink and placed the glass back down on the table. With a swish of her wand, she drew the curtains shut, leaving the room in the dim glow of candlelight. 

  
This was all too much for one day. It was exhausting. She would turn in early for the night, she decided. Sleep it off. Things always seemed to appear clearer the morning after. 

  
She made her way through the empty hallway towards the staircase, the click of her heels on the wooden floor being the only sound echoing through the house. But before she made it to the staircase, Walburga found herself pausing outside a door she had barely acknowledged for several years. It was the door to a room she preferred to forget. But today, she found herself inexplicably drawn to it.   
Perhaps it was the memories reignited in her mind by the letter, perhaps it was the anaesthetising of her better judgement by the whiskey. But for whatever unidentified reason, Walburga found herself reaching out a hand to turn the silver handle and open the door, entering the Tapestry Room of Grimmauld Place for the first time in years. 

  
The room smelled damp and dusty. It had been left to languish in a state of decay on her orders - she could not stand the thought even of the elf coming in to clean this room. Suppose she should be passing by and catch a glimpse inside? And so the dust had been left to settle, the odour of damp had been allowed to linger, and the grand, wall-length tapestry detailing the entire family history of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had been left to its own devices. 

  
Her hand shaking slightly, Walburga drew her wand from the pocket of her gown skirt. 

  
_"Lumos"_ she murmured, so low she could scarcely hear herself. But the elm wand humming with warmth in her palm never failed to hear even her faintest of commands, and so it obediently let fourth a brilliant stream of white light, illuminating the entire room in its glow. 

  
Walburga cast her gaze across to her left, taking in the sight of the Black family tapestry for the first time in what felt like an eternity. There was an element of comforting familiarity in it - at this end, at least. She reached out a hand and traced her fingertips lightly over the names of her ancestors, delicately woven in golden thread onto the branches of the tree. The names of these long-dead witches and wizards did not evoke any strong sense of feeling in her. They were the names that had remained unchanged for centuries. 

  
Walburga did, however, find herself smiling a little at the sudden return of a long-ago memory from her childhood, buried deep inside the corners of her mind. 

  
_"And this name here, do you see that?" Pollux Black asked, glancing down at his four year old daughter stood beside him, clutching onto his hand._

  
_The wizard pointed a finger at the name Licorus Black on one of the furthest edges of the tapestry._

  
_"Yes, Papa" Walburga replied with an eager nod, craning her neck to look up at the name her father pointed to._

  
_"That is the wizard who procured this house for our family" Pollux explained, his voice heavy with pride. "This house has been the home of the head of the Black family ever since - and it always shall be"_

  
_Walburga stood herself up on her tiptoes, straining her neck so far back in her efforts to see the far-up names that her two thick braids of black hair that hung down to her chest tumbled over her shoulders._

  
_Upon seeing his young daughter's eagerness, Pollux grasped her under the arms and lifted her up to get a better view of the names on the tapestry._

  
_Held firm in her father's grasp, the four-year-old girl reached out her small hand to touch the golden embroidered names. She smiled happily as her fingers felt the warm tingle of the magic infused into the fabric of the tapestry._

  
That same warmth tingled under her fingertips now, still as strong as ever, after so many years. It hummed beneath her fingertips as she traced along the family tree, past the names and dates of countless members of the Black lineage. 

Her touch lingered for a moment over the name of her father, the man who had first introduced her to the magnificence of their family lineage all those years ago. 

She had not seen him in several years, nor her mother. Pollux and Irma Black had fled England for the seclusion of the French countryside not long after the arrest of their granddaughter, Bellatrix. Her shameful actions were the last straw - no longer could they tolerate the scandals brought upon the once proud and noble Black family by each of their five grandchildren in turn. 

  
Walburga sighed as her eyes gazed over the names before her - more recent members of the family, names she could put faces to. Names with incomplete dates underneath them, dates of birth waiting alone beside an empty space, waiting to be filled. 

  
And of course, some already were. 

  
Walburga snatched her hand away from the tapestry as the branches led her to her brother's name. The lettering of Alphard's name was tarnished, singed with scorch marks from where she herself had blasted his place on the tree with her own wand in a fit of betrayed anger. Even now, her teeth clenched in irritation as she stared at his name. How could he have done such a thing? Betrayed his own sister so? 

  
She cast her gaze away. But there was little comfort to be found in the names that it landed upon. 

  
There was a painful ache in her chest as she stared at the names of her husband and son. Not since their deaths had she been able to stand the thought of seeing their neatly-embroidered names upon the tree. It had been too painful to even consider. 

  
And yet, even now she was stood here before them, in spite of the pain, she found herself lifting her hand to reach out to them, her hand shaking slightly as her fingertips stroked over her husband's place on the tapestry. 

  
**Orion Black**   
**1929 - 1979**

  
_"Mrs Black, please, I'm sorry, truly. But I'm afraid there's simply nothing to-"_

  
_"Do not tell me that again!" Walburga shrieked at the nervous-looking Healer from across the waiting room of St. Mungo's._

  
_The witch in her snow-white hospital robes flinched as the distraught wife of her patient hurled the anger of her emotions at her._

  
_"Don't you dare tell me there is nothing to be done" Walburga seethed, her voice dangerously low. "I forbid it"_

  
_She paced up and down the room like a lion in a cage, her heels clicking loudly on it's cold, white tiles. At a loss for any other outlet for her distraught rage, she rounded on the Healer once more, who flinched as the fiery glare of the grey-eyed witch pierced her._

  
_"The amount of gold poured into this hospital year after year -_ my _family's gold, a good deal of it! - and you have the audacity to tell me there is_ nothing _you can do for my husband?!"_

  
_"Madam, please" the Healer pleaded with the distraught soon-to-be widow. "If there were anything possible, it would be done. But the illness is too advanced. If your husband had come to us sooner-"_

  
Walburga's hand froze in mid-air, on it's way to stroke the embroidered name of her late husband. Her hand balled into a fist and her breath trembled as she was reminded of the extent to which her husband had hid his illness from his associates, from his family, from her. With his trademark silent endurance, Orion Black had soldiered on until the bitter end, until he could no longer hide the symptoms of the illness that would claim him. He had ensured his affairs were in order, as far as the magic at play would allow. 

  
And then he had keeled over. Had bent double with the force of a coughing fit, had splattered his front and the floor with blood droplets and had fallen to the floor, as quietly as he had done everything in his life. 

  
Walburga had immediately Apparated them both to St. Mungo's but there was little to be done. The illness was too far advanced. Her husband was leaving her. There was no time for either her or their son, Regulus, to even say goodbye. 

  
Regulus. 

  
Walburga felt a knot of emotion in her chest tighten as she glanced at her son's name, immediately below her own. 

  
Her poor son. Her precious child. Taken from this world, from her, at only eighteen years old. 

  
Walburga still remembered that horrible day when she realised her son was missing. It was as though he had simply vanished, taken off and disappeared, like his brother before him. But Regulus Arcturus was not his brother. He was not capable of abandoning his family, his duty. He would not. 

  
Walburga had been out that afternoon, visiting her sister-in-law Lucretia for afternoon tea, not that it had been an enjoyable experience. Merely a few short months after Orion's shockingly sudden death, both his sister and his widow had found time to be of little healing power and their meetings often consisted of the tense silences that had never been there before, in which both women would glance up at each other as though daring the other to say the unspoken thoughts shared between them.

  
After making her excuses at the earliest opportunity, Walburga had returned home, stepping out of the fireplace of Grimmauld Place, the ever-loyal Kreacher ready and waiting to take her cloak.

  
Walburga had called for her son, her brow furrowing with suspicion when he did not immediately come to her when called, as he had always done since he was first old enough to recognise her summoning. 

  
When numerous calls of his name were met with silence, Walburga climbed the stairs to Regulus's room on the top floor, directly opposite the forbidden door which remained permanently closed. Perhaps the boy was ill in bed. He had not made an appearance at all since breakfast that morning, after all, and then he had looked pale and troubled, even quieter than usual. 

  
Disregarding the impertinent, forbidding sign that her son had affixed to his bedroom door in what Walburga could only assume was a belated fit of adolescent rebellion, she rapped her knuckles on the wood and entered without awaiting a response. 

  
Regulus's empty bedroom loomed before her. His bed was made, as always, his things all neatly stored away, everything in its place, as it should be. But Regulus was not here. 

  
Dread began to fill Walburga, clouding her more reasonable judgement of perhaps he had simply gone to visit a friend, to make some purchases, gone out for a walk...

  
But deep down she knew this was not true. Regulus Arcturus had never before presumed to go anywhere without telling her first. 

  
And yet he had. He was gone, without a trace. 

  
Walburga did not sleep a wink that night. She sent out owl after owl long into the evening, demanding information of her son's whereabouts from all family members who may know, but all returned unsuccessful. 

  
When news of Regulus's absence reached the family, it wasn't long before the Floo fireplace of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was alive with activity, the drawing room quickly becoming crowded with relatives responding to the raised alarm of Regulus's absence. 

  
_"Try not to worry so, dear" Irma Black had told her daughter, squeezing her shoulder in an attempt to be reassuring. "I'm sure Regulus will return soon with a perfectly logical explanation for his absence"_

  
_Walburga jerked herself free from her mother's touch and paced across the room, sighing in frustration._

_It was now past midnight and her son had still not returned, nor been heard from. There could be no logical explanation for this._

  
_Besides, if he'd had a logical explanation for his absence, he would have told her where he was going. Regulus Arcturus did not keep secrets from his mother. Why could none of the fools crowded into her drawing room see that?_

  
_She was just about to tell them as much when suddenly, a dreadful, cold shiver ran down her spine, freezing her to the spot in dread for a moment. She felt the colour drain from her face, felt her hands involuntarily begin to shake. It was natural instinct at its finest, at play with her mind, telling her to go to the tapestry room._

  
_"No" Walburga pleaded inside her mind as she rushed from the drawing room, barging past her parents, in-laws and goodness knows who else had come to clutter up the house in an attempt to be at the heart of the crisis. "Merlin, please, no"_

  
_She threw open the door of the tapestry room and hurried along the length of the winding tree branches until her gaze ell upon her son's name, directly below her own._

  
_Before her very eyes, the magic-infused strands of golden thread had woven themselves together in a sight far too graceful for an image so horrific, to complete her son's entry on the family tree, alongside the names of his ancestors before him._

  
_**Regulus Black** _   
_**1961 - 1979** _

  
_Walburga was scarcely aware of the almighty cry of anguish that was ripped from within her, nor of when exactly she had collapsed to her knees, her hands still clawing at the tapestry above her as her body was wracked with sobs._

  
_She was vaguely aware of the feeling of hands on her shoulders, her arms, rubbing her back, each one as intolerable than the other._

  
_"Get off of me!" she shrieked, thrashing herself free from the grip of her fawning relatives._

  
_The women surrounding her backed away from the witch crumpled in a heap on the floor._

  
_"Get out, all of you" Walburga seethed, her voice dangerously quiet and still._

  
_Nobody moved. The crowd of shocked witches and wizards staring at her stood frozen to their places, nobody quite sure what to do, how to handle the situation._

  
_"I said get out!" Walburga shrieked at the top of her lungs, wilder and more enraged than any of the previous fits of temper she was prone to. "Get out!"_

  
_Walburga's shaking hand felt for her wand, gripping the elm handle in a white-knuckled grip that could have snapped a stick of wood not infused with magic. She hurled her arm about madly, shooting random sparks of an unknown spell at the bystanders, mercifully missing them all but leaving none undisturbed by her outburst._

  
_The room quickly emptied, the shocked Blacks hurrying away from Walburga's grief-stricken onslaught._

  
_Alone at last, Walburga's anger caved into pure despair._

  
_Her hand shook, her grip faltered, her wand clattering to the floor. She bent over double, falling onto her side to lay beneath the tapestry in a crumpled heap, sobbing uncontrollably, a broken women._

  
And now here she stood, five years later, in that exact same spot, staring the spot below her name on the tapestry. 

  
But it wasn't the elegant, awful death date below Regulus's name she was staring at. It was the ugly, black scorch mark beside it. The gaping hole where Sirius's name should be. 

  
It had been in a fit of anguished rage that Walburga had stormed into the tapestry room and had blaster her firstborn's name from the tapestry, symbolically, if not literally, disowning him from the family. 

  
In truth, the tapestry was a mere piece of artistic symbolism - pretty to look at, majestic to behold in its entirety, but it could not undo the deeper magic which bound a blood member of the Black family to the tree. 

  
But for Walburga, the morning after Sirius's flight for freedom, destroying her son's place on the tapestry was the only way she could see to attempt to remove all thought of her disgraceful elder son from her mind, as if the sight of the scorch mark where his entry had been would reduce him to little more than a scorch mark in her memory. 

  
If only it had worked. 

  
Walburga stared long and hard at Sirius's place on the tapestry. Her work had been somewhat haphazard, in hind sight. Her aim had been off, that day. Although she had succeeded in burning off the majority of Sirius's name, she had not damaged the dates beneath it. The birth date was still there, shining bright, bold as brass. And the spot beside it remained empty and untarnished, ready and waiting to weave the date of Sirius's death and complete the entry. 

  
The words of the letter echoed through Walburga's mind once more, reminding her that this spot would not be empty for much longer. Sirius would be dead before long, his death date would appear on the tapestry and his spot would be completed - like his father and brother before him. 

  
Leaving Walburga finally, truly alone.

  
When thoughts of her husband and younger son's deaths came to mind, the overwhelming thought was one of un-fulfilment. With neither of them had she been able to have the final closure of final words of farewell, or a even the luxury of time to prepare for their departures. There had been no time to demand of her husband why he had not seen fit to seek the attention of a Healer whilst the disease that ravaged him was still within its early, more treatable stages. Nor had there been an opportunity to uncover the exact circumstances of Regulus's tragically-premature demise.

  
Both of their losses had left open wounds in Walburga's heart, unable to heal, forever throbbing with pain. 

  
At the very least, with Orion's passing, there had been the certainty of a diagnosis - a known cause of death. With Regulus, however, the circumstances of his death were still shrouded in uncertainty and rumour. The most likely scenario that Walburga had been able to piece together was that he had been killed either in the service of, if not by the Dark Lord himself. Walburga had not even known her son had become one of his gang of followers. The extent of her good, honest, obedient son's deception still stung, like rubbing salt into the already raw wound of his death. 

  
These were wounds that would never heal - could never be granted permission to close. There was no remedy. 

  
Was she really prepared to suffer a third mark upon her heart? 

  
Walburga lifted her hand and gently stroked her fingers over Sirius's place on the tapestry. The singed, black material where her wand had struck his name was cold and still, the hum of magic having been vanquished from the area by the force of the blast. But below it, on the woven lettering of his birth date, the fabric warmed and tingled with life, as did the empty spot beside it. The tapestry was ready and waiting, poised to begin the horrifically beautiful process of weaving the death date of her son into place. 

  
Walburga lowered her hand and took a step back from the tapestry. Her mind was made up, her decision made. 

  
Despite all that he had done, all he had done to her, Sirius was still her son. And if he was soon to leave her, like his father and brother, then she would demand of him this one courtesy he owed her - an explanation. A goodbye. Closure. 

  
She was his mother. It was the very least he owed her. 

  
Turning away from the tapestry, Walburga departed the room, the feeling of a great load lifting as she closed the door firmly behind her. 

  
She returned to her desk in the parlour, where the previously-roaring fire was now reduced to embers, and took the Ministry letter out from the bottom drawer. Setting it to one side, she tapped the desk with her wand, awaiting the fresh roll of parchment to uncurl itself before her before taking up her quill and beginning to pen her reply. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walburga journeys to Azkaban to pay her son a visit, and leaves with quite a different outcome than the one she had anticipated.

**7th March 1984**

The tower of Azkaban prison was an imposing sight that did not fail to send a shiver down the spine of those who looked upon it. 

  
The bleak, black fortress sat alone upon a rock of an island, about a mile out from the shore of the mainland. The light of the full moon did not seem to reach it, could not shine a light upon the inky blackness of its walls. Without even having reached the influence if the dementors which glided around the tower like bees to a hive, one could not help but feel all thoughts of happiness drain from their minds. It seemed wrong, somehow, to consider an amusing or jolly thought whilst looking up at the imposing sight of the tower of Azkaban. 

  
This place was truly the definition of despair, was what Walburga found herself thinking as she stared up at the approaching prison from the wooden dinghy she sat in alongside the guard accompanying her on her visit. 

  
The boat glided through the stormy waters, shield enchantments protecting them from the splash of the sea as they made their made the mile or so journey from the mainland to the island. 

  
"You might want to cast your patronus now, ma'am" said the guard, a wiry young wizard who couldn't have been older than twenty-five. No more than a boy, really. He glanced behind him at the dementors circling around the skies in the near-distance. "We'll be within reach of the dementors' influence soon"

  
Walburga wondered how poorly he had performed at school that he was reduced to working as an Azkaban guard. At the very least, such a job had ensured he was capable of at least one advanced spell. 

  
Leading by example, the guard withdrew his wand, cleared his throat and muttered the incantation that sent a blindingly white wisp of light from the tip of his wand. It danced about in the air above the boat for a moment before it formed into the shape of a magpie, fluttering about in the air. 

  
Walburga soon followed suit, taking her wand out from the deep pocket of her heavy, fur-lined cloak and raking her brain for a memory suitable for the task. 

  
She had prepared for this. Walburga was no stranger to the patronus charm. There were few advanced charms she had not mastered over the years - being a Black required an extensive command of magic. One couldn't have a member of such an esteemed family being considered slow at magic, after all. But years of seclusion and melancholy had left the memories required to cast such a spell hidden deep inside the corners of her mind, locked away for safekeeping. 

  
After much pondering, being careful not to accidentally come across any particularly raw memories, she finally settled on one - her wedding day. 

  
Fond memories of the carefully-controlled excitement she'd felt as she was joined in matrimony to the man she had spent years attempting to convince herself she felt no affection for filled her mind. Even now, when she remembered how he'd smiled down at her (when exactly had he gotten so tall?), with that triumphant, proud smile, Walburga felt butterflies flapping about within her, reducing her to feeling like little more than a giddy schoolgirl. It was a memory that never ceased to make her smile. 

  
And it was the memory that sent the brilliant white light shooting from her wand, swirling about above her before the form of her tigress patronus appeared, sat dutifully beside her in the dinghy. She instantly felt a little lighter, less weighed down by the sorrows the island seemed to radiate.

  
The guard gave her shimmering patronus a slightly taken-aback sideways glance. It certainly was far larger and more intimidating than his humble, flapping magpie. 

  
"How much longer until we reach the island?" Walburga asked, her sharp tone snapping the guard's attention away from her patronus. 

  
"Another ten minutes or so, ma'am" the guard replied, quickly averting his gaze away from the glowing form of the tigress, who's tail tip flicked to and fro in an absent-minded fashion. 

  
Walburga felt the air grow ever colder as they approached the jagged rocky shore of the island. She pulled her heavy cloak tighter around her shoulders against the chill - even with a warming enchantment placed upon it for extra help, the cold of Azkaban was hard to escape. 

  
The black spectres of the dementors floated about high in the sky above them as they came ashore. The creatures did not descend upon them, the shimmering glow of the two patronuses seeming to ward them away. Walburga had to concentrate on keeping the full force of her charm strong. The temptation to lose focus through sheer awe at the creatures swarming around the tower was strong. 

  
How curious, Walburga thought to herself, that a creature of such simple appearance can prove quite so intimidating. 

  
"Best not dawdle, ma'am" said the guard as he hurried past Walburga, pulling his own decidedly less warm-looking cloak close around his neck. "Best not give them anything to look at for too long"

  
Glaring at the impertinence of the young wizard for pushing past her so rudely, Walburga looked up to the sky for a moment to observe that, indeed, the dementors did seem to be staring down at her - if a creature with no eyes could stare. They seemed to have noticed her. 

  
Averting her eyes quickly, she strode after her chaperone, her glowing, white tigress prowling along at her side. 

  
The guard tapped the iron doors with his wand in a particular pattern. With an echoing, metallic clink, the doors unlocked and swung open, revealing a dark, unlit corridor within. 

  
Entering Azkaban prison rather reminded Walburga of a long-ago trip her family had taken to visit acquaintances deep in the Scottish highlands when she was a child. Hogwarts castle was not the only magical fortress hidden by magic amidst the blue-and-purple mountains, and Walburga remembered exploring a derelict medieval castle on the sprawling grounds surrounding the main house. 

  
As she walked through the damp, stone corridors of Azkaban, the sound of her shoes echoing through the rocky walls around her, Walburga was reminded of creeping through that crumbling ruin of a castle as a child - the first to venture in, accepting a dare from her brothers.

  
The fact that she felt as undeterred now as she did them was owed entirely to the protection of her patronus. Even with the powerful shield of the tigress, Walburga could sense the utter despair and anguish that would seep into her like water through a sponge at the first given opportunity. The very weight of the torment awaiting her mind seemed to press down upon her, as though daring her to give in and allow the light of her patronus to flicker out, leaving her at the mercy of the influence of the dementors outside. 

  
Azkaban was not a place where a pleasant thought could be allowed to fester unchecked. 

  
"There's a fair few stairs, I'm afraid, ma'am" said the guard, jerking his head towards a winding, stone staircase. "We keep the Death Eaters right at the top, see. S'where the dementors are strongest. It gets to the prisoners better up there. Keeps 'em more suppressed" 

  
He turned away and began to climb the stairs, his magpie patronus flapping about just above him, oblivious to the fiery look Walburga was shooting at him.

  
The youth spoke in a tone far too casual for one explaining to a mother the exact level of torture her son was being subjected to. 

  
As they ascended the winding staircase, the air around them echoed with the faint moans and whimpers of the prisoners on the first level, their misery painfully evident in their cries. 

  
Walburga looked round to catch a glimpse of the long row of cells along as they passed the first level by. The lighting was truly awful, faint glimmers of moonlight being the only relief from the darkness. No one saw a point in sparing candles to light the cells of Azkaban - the fire would only flicker out as the dementors glided past, anyway. 

As she climbed the narrow, stone stairs, Walburga glanced out of a small window in the wall and noticed a peculiar sight. Whilst the rest of the island that played host to Azkaban prison consisted merely of barren, jagged rock, there was a large patch at the base of the tower, visible from this particular window, that was grassy and fenced in. It looked very out of place in such surroundings, at first glance. But on closer inspection, one could see that the grass was littered with holes in varying states. Some almost completely grown over by the grass, some newly filled-in, the soil mounds still brown. 

"The graveyard" said the young guard wizard, pausing on the stairs after having noticed Walburga's interest. "S'where we put them once they've died" 

Walburga grimaced, her chaperone's words leaving an unpleasant taste in her mouth. The sight of the graveyard brought about none of the images normally associated with burials; a procession of mourners, an array of flowers, a ceremony conducted with honour. Walburga's mind instead filled with the image only of the clawed, scabbed hands of the dementors gripped around a skeletal corpse, dumping it unceremoniously into yet another hole in the ground. 

Her patronus flickered for a moment like a candle fuelled by the last drops of wax. Walburga quickly shook such image from her mind. This was no place to dwell on such unpleasant thoughts. 

  
Several floors later, the staircase came to an end. 

  
"Next stairs are at the other end I'm afraid, ma'am" said the guard, his face a grim expression of distaste at the thought of having to journey along the length of the cell-lined corridor before them. 

  
Above his head, his glow of his magpie flickered for a moment in response to the ominous, cloaked figure which drifted aimlessly past the glass-less window beside them. 

  
Walburga felt a slight tug on her grip on her patronus as her eyes fell upon the dementor. This was the closest she had ever been to such a creature - there was nothing about the life of a respectable pureblood witch that should suggest she should ever expect to become within such close proximity to a dementor, of course - and she gripped her wand tighter inside her cloak pocket, forcing the glow of her tigress to burn brighter in response. 

  
There was a flicker of awe on the face of her young chaperone - he had clearly had sub-par expectations of his charge's ability to handle this most dreaded of places. 

  
The young man led the way, hurrying along the damp stone floor without so much as glancing sideways at the pathetic creatures surrounding them. He had seem them before. He had learned not to look. 

  
But to Walburga, this was all new. And so she couldn't help but have her head turned by the calls of the witches and wizards within the cells she walked past. Their pathetic voices, pleading for help, for mercy, for food, for any number of things, their withered arms in striped, ragged prison robes reaching out through the bars of their cell doors. Their reach was not far enough to even brush against the hem of Walburga's skirts, but she felt uneasy nonetheless and twitched away each time a new claw-like hand reached out towards her. 

  
A feeling of unease filled her mind. 

  
Is this the state her son would be in, as well? 

"So what brings you here, anyway?" asked the young man, casually. 

Walburga was taken aback by his question. What a strange place to strike up a conversation - and of such an intrusive topic. 

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, her offence evident in her tone. 

"Sorry" said the guard, plainly, his voice suggesting he meant no true apology. "S'just we don't get visitors here too often. Can only remember a couple in the last few years" 

"I'm sure" said Walburga, her voice prim and formal. "This is hardly a place one would wish to visit" 

"Why're you here, then?" asked the young wizard again. 

What a nosy thing he truly was. Walburga supposed working in such an awful place had hardened his sense of fearing something as trivial as being accused of being rude. For that, at least, she decided to do him the courtesy of a reply. 

"Closure" she said simply, in a voice that suggested that this was quite the end of this particular conversation, so he needn't trouble himself to ask for further explanation. 

To her satisfaction, he seemed to take the hint.

  
It was a relief to finally reach the staircase at the end of the long corridor and leave behind the echoing noise of the unfortunates. But it was a mercy of a mixed bag, for there was surely worse to come as they ascended the to the top of the tower, where the effect of the dementors was at its most potent. 

  
"Just along here" said the guard, jerking his head along the row of cells along the top floor. 

  
It was eerily quiet, far more so than Walburga had been expecting, compared to the noise of the levels below. 

  
The light of the full moon left the room in a pale, milky glow which was scarcely enough to see to the other end of the corridor. With the light of the two patronuses, however, it was far easier to make out the rows of cells. 

  
The cells were far fewer up here than the long rows down below, a mere five on each side of the room. Each was filled with a shadowy body which either lay crumpled on the stone floor of the cell or which sat up against the wall at the far back; some sat still and hunched over, hugging their knees, others rocked back and forward, muttering quietly. Walburga hesitantly looked through the bars of each cell, half-expecting, half-dreading, to recognise one of these lost creatures to be her son. To her strange sense of relief, none of them were him. 

  
Her mind suddenly wandered to the thought of Bellatrix, her niece, whom had been sentenced to life in Azkaban not too long after Sirius himself. Her brother's eldest daughter had been reduced to yet another ghost of the past that Walburga tried to keep as far from the front of her thoughts as possible; the image of her niece cackling defiantly on the front of the Daily Prophet, appearing even more deranged than Sirius had, was an experience that filled her with enough shame and disgust to last a lifetime. Walburga wondered unpleasantly whether one of the figures inside the cells could be her.

Thankfully, the inmates were too shrouded in darkness to make out any distinguishable features. 

  
Besides, she thought to herself with a twisted sense of bemusement, there was no force upon this earth capable of keeping Bellatrix Lestrange so quiet.

  
"In here, ma'am" called the young wizard, having paused at the door of the cell right at the end of the row. 

  
Nerves suddenly pooling unpleasantly in the pit of her stomach, Walburga slowly walked forward to join him in front of the cell. 

  
The interior of the cell was darker than most, being at an angle denied the benefit of the moonlight, but Walburga could just make out the shadowy figure of a person laying half-curled up on one side on the floor. The cell was completely devoid of all furnishings, completely lacking in any form of bedding or comfort. The figure trembled slightly, the air punctured with the sounds of his pained, raspy breathing and occasional incoherent moans.

  
So this was the state her son was reduced to. 

  
Walburga was snapped out of her trance-like staring by the clanging of metal as the guard tapped the barred cell door with his wand, unlocking it and holding it open for her. 

  
"I'd keep your distance, ma'am, just in case" he warned her, jerking his head again in that impertinent way, gesturing for her to enter. 

  
Walburga resisted the urge to snap at the youth once again. 

  
Insane mass murderer or otherwise, no son of hers would so much as entertain the idea as to lay a hand on her. 

  
She entered the cell, her prowling tigress patronus lighting up the cramped space. 

  
With the blazing power of her patronus now lighting the room, Walburga could examine the crumpled heap that was her son properly. 

  
He was asleep, or in some form of unconsciousness, at least, she quickly gathered. He did not seem to react to her arrival or the voices around him. He was in full grip of the illness, his strength to keep himself awake apparently already wasted away under the full force of the disease. Walburga could not conclude whether this was a mercy or not. 

  
Even in the bright, white light, his skin was dull and grey-ish. His face was sunken, hollowed from malnutrition, the dark circles below his closed eyes only exaggerating the gauntness of his face. In fact, his entire body looked ravaged from the effects of three years without proper food. His body was reduced to a skeletal appearance, his striped, ragged prison robes seeming to swamp his fragile form. The arm Walburga could see, from where the sleeve had creased up, was stick-thin and looked it could snap with little force. 

  
Walburga suddenly noticed the metal bowl sitting in the corner across the cell, from where it had been unceremoniously slid through the bars. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the unappealing sight of the untouched, partially-solidified gruel within it. It looked as though it had been there for several days. 

  
"They said he hasn't touched anything for three days, now" said the guard wizard from outside the cell, having noticed Walburga's interest. 

  
He stood, leaning against the outside of the cell door, his arms hugged across his chest against the cold, his magpie perched on his shoulder, matching the almost-bored look of it's owner. 

  
"That's how we know they haven't got long left" said the wizard, his tone infuriatingly casual for the words he spoke. "When they stop eating" 

  
Walburga felt a spark of rage ignite inside her. How dare this insolent slip of a wizard speak so callously in front of her? 

  
Because he sees prisoners die on a regular basis, she reasoned with herself. He is no stranger to the death of convicted criminals. 

  
Except Sirius was not, technically, convicted, she remembered suddenly.

  
"I'd say he's got three days?" interrupted the voice of the youth once more in his irritatingly airy voice. "Four, maybe?" 

  
"Would you leave us for a few moments?" Walburga cut across him, her voice dangerously polite. 

  
"Um, yeah, can do" replied the guard, a little taken aback by the request. He seemed to notice the hint in his charge's tone. "Can I, um, conjure you a chair or something?" 

  
"That won't be necessary" Walburga replied, coolly. "I will summon you when I am ready to leave" 

  
The youth left with a quick nod, locking the cell door behind her and hurrying off, only too happy to hurry back along the corridor for the relative safety of the staircase. 

  
Alone at last, Walburga took a few steps closer to Sirius before slowly sinking to her knees so as to examine him properly, completely disregarding the damp stone floor now pressing against the expensive material of her skirts. 

  
She felt a cold dampness seeping through the layers of her clothes and grimaced at the unpleasant feeling. She looked around at the floor and noticed that it was strangely damp. It was only then that she realised that the air was punctured with the echoing sound of falling water drops. She looked up and noticed that the ceiling of the cell and roof of the entire tower was cracked, the stone being littered with holes that let in the drizzling rain falling from the night sky, creating puddles of water on the stone floor of the cell.

  
"Sirius?" she asked in a quiet, hesitant voice. She wasn't sure what she expected in reply. One look at the person laying on the cold, stone floor was enough to know that he was in no fit state to so much as greet her, let alone provide the explanations (and apologies) for his actions that Walburga had told herself she'd come all this way in search of. 

  
In the glow of her patronus, which sat beside her dutifully, she could make out the true extend of her son's deteriorated state. 

  
Walburga knew of fading fever. She knew how it worked - it's effects of fever, nausea and coughing fits ravaging the body until they quite literally faded away towards the inevitable fate of death - but she had never seen it in person before. And to see its effects in person was truly more startling than any medical journal could describe. 

  
This Sirius Black was a mere shadow of the young, lively, healthy boy she had last seen when he was sixteen. He was, now, still only twenty-four years old. He should be a man in his prime, right now, in the most vibrant grip of the natural tall, athletic frame and noble good looks he had been blessed with. And yet, here he lay, wasted away, his former handsomeness faded away by the so aptly-named illness that would be sure to claim him in just a few short days. 

  
Walburga couldn't help it. She was losing her grip on her emotions, so vital a skill for the continuation of the patronus charm protecting her from the onslaught of the dementors surrounding the tower.

Sadness washed over here, extinguishing the flame of the memory that kept her patronus alive and bright. 

  
Beside her, the glowing form of the tigress had begun to flicker, its light dimming, its effects fading. The presence of the dementors began to press down on her as her protective charm faded.

  
Walburga quickly fumbled for her wand in her pocket, repeating the incantation under her breath and scrambling within the deepest corners of her mind for a memory. She needed something stronger, more powerful. 

  
She hadn't intentionally meant to reach for this particular memory - if anything, she stumbled across it merely by accident. But it was just the one she needed to keep alive the protection of the patronus. 

  
_She was tired. So incredibly worn out. And so sore. Her head pounded furiously, the mere sound of raindrops outside being battered against the windows from the dreary, November wind hammering into her head like tiny explosions. And yet, in spite of it all, Walburga felt she had never felt more aglow with happiness than she had ever felt in her life. This was the moment she had waited for, longed for for so long. She felt as though she were in a dream from which she might wake if she dared to pinch herself._

  
_The newborn infant in her arms lay peacefully still, his journey into the world seeming to have tired him out as well as much as it had his mother. His eyes were squeezed shut against the light - though the room was lit only by the dim glow of a few candles, it was still rather intense for him. Never mind. Walburga did not need to see her newborn son's eyes to know exactly what they would look like - silvery-grey, the exact same shade as her own, his father's, and the majority of his family. Such eyes were a rarity amongst the wider pureblood family lines, but in the Black family they were a trademark feature - and one they were very proud of._

  
_Walburga smiled proudly down at the child in her arms. Her firstborn child. Her son. An immense wave of protective instinct washed over her, and in that moment, she knew that she would protect this most precious of treasures with her life._

  
_She promised him as such, as she gently stroked her fingers over the wisps of black hair already coating his head._

  
_Their time alone together amounted to little more than a precious few minutes. All too soon, the men would arrive to inspect the new heir. His father would take him from her arms to carry out the ceremony which would bind him magically to the family and estate, proclaiming him as the next heir to the House of Black. It was right and proper, and Walburga would never dream of preventing it, as hard as it would be to give up him up even for a few minutes. But all that was still some time away yet. For now, in this moment, everything was perfect._

  
The white light of her patronus suddenly blazed brighter than ever, making Walburga squint for a moment, her eyes already too adjusted to the darkness of the cell. She looked across at her tigress and watched as the glowing creature got to its feet and prowled away from her, rounding the cell until it was stood right behind Sirius. The tigress lay herself down beside him protectively, as any tigress would dutifully watch over her cub. 

  
Almost immediately, a change seemed to come over Sirius. Though still unconscious, he seemed to relax in response to the presence of the patronus. His tense body in its curled-up position slackened slightly and he took a deep, peaceful breath, letting out what one could almost accuse of being a sigh of relief. It was as though he sensed the protective glow of his mother's patronus which now bathed his entire form in its light, shielding him from the crushing weight of the dementors' influence. 

  
Perhaps it was the strength of the memory. Perhaps it was natural instinct from the harsh reality of seeing her offspring in such a pitiful state. But the force of the fiercely protective instinct which ignited inside Walburga was deeper and more intense than she could ever remember feeling. Not even on the day he was born had she felt it so strongly. But then, on the day he was born he was safe and warm at home in the house and family in which he belonged, not languishing, half-dead on the stone floor of a prison cell. 

  
She could not do it. She could not simply walk out of this cell, turn away from him and leave him here to die, alone in the dark. It was not possible. Of that, she was certain. 

  
But what was to be done? 

  
Walburga suddenly recalled a distant memory from many years ago. 

  
She had been eighteen, nineteen, perhaps? A mere slip of a witch, barely a year out of school, on a summer visit to London with her parents and brothers. She had skulked the halls of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, sighing every few minutes at the dreariness of such a place. How could one possible live in such a dull house, she wondered to herself, when there were any number of more interesting places to be in the world? She had no idea how her cousin Lucretia put up with living in such a place.

As she often did on rainy afternoons that summer when there were no calls to pay or afternoon teas to endure, Walburga had found herself in the library, her mind buried in the far more interesting worlds of the Blacks' enormous personal collection of spell books and encyclopaedias of magic considered, to put it diplomatically, a tad more controversial than other more mainstream subjects.   
On this particular afternoon, Walburga had placed herself on the window seat of the library, leaning against the window, her knees pulled up and a book on unconventional potion-making resting atop her legs. Sandwiched between her side and the glass was a far more suitable book on a history of diplomatic relations between leprechauns and the wizarding community of Ireland, just in case anyone happened to rudely interrupt and find her reading such an unsuitable book. 

  
Walburga had always excelled at Potions; though old Slughorn was known to be far more lax with the marking of his favourite students' work, Walburga Black was not a student whom he had to take liberties with. She had a natural gift for her potion-making, and a genuine interest. And so, having walked out of Hogwarts with an Outstanding NEWT, she thought herself more than qualified to research the sort of potions and ingredients that were not the sort you could source on Diagon Alley. 

  
Now, all these years later, Walburga could recall coming across an entry in that book, which she knew still languished, unused, on a shelf in the library in that house which was now her home, which detailed "a remedy for the incurable maladies". And it just so happened that one of the maladies listed had been fading fever, a disease written off as incurable by the soft-hearted St. Mungo's healers with their pathetically unshakeable ethics on potioneering. 

  
A sudden outburst of coughing echoing around the cell brought Walburga's attention back to Sirius. He was caught in the grip of a severe fit of coughing, his entire, frail body convulsing with the force of each one as it clawed its way painfully out of his chest. The coughing fits of fading fever were well-known to be an intense, energy-depleting endurance. It was a disturbing sight to hear and witness. 

  
Walburga couldn't stop herself. She leaned forward and placed her hand on her son's thin shoulder and squeezed, shuddering slightly at the burn of his skin even through his prison rags, his fever raging relentlessly. 

  
"It's alright" she whispered, gently. "It will pass. It's alright..." 

  
She had no idea if he could hear her. In all likelihood, he had no idea who she was, or even if she was real, if he could hear her at all. But something about offering the reassuring gesture provided Walburga with a strange sense of relief to herself, regardless. 

  
Almost without her noticing, her hand had moved from his shoulder up to his head, to stroke the mass of dirty, matted hair as though soothing a startled creature.

  
Mercifully, the coughing soon ceased and Sirius began to still once again, his shuddering breaths calming slightly, his pained expression relaxing.

  
"Mum..."

  
Walburga froze, gasping quietly in shock, pulling back her hand from his head.

  
Sirius's voice was so feeble that she could not be entirely certain whether he had indeed recognised her or if he had simply let out an unintelligible moan that she had wistfully interpreted as him speaking to her. But somehow, the latter was just not something Walburga could convince herself of. 

  
In that moment there was simply no further argument to be had on the matter. 

  
Years of estrangement and feelings of hurt and betrayal had changed absolutely nothing. This Sirius Black, who lay here, resting in the comforting glow of her patronus, was her son. She was foolish to attempt to convince herself otherwise. And no son of hers was going to be allowed to die here, alone and pathetic in a hellish prison cell.

  
"You may come back through" Walburga called, her commanding voice echoing through the corridor to the guard who waited on the staircase. 

  
With some difficulty, she withdrew from her son's side, giving his head one last farewell stroke before she got to her feet. 

  
The young guard returned, his fluttering magpie at his side. He looked far less sure of himself than he had done before, seeming more concerned than anything to see Walburga primly brushing off her skirts as casually as if she might be anywhere other than the most dreaded prison known to wizard. 

  
"I am ready to take my leave now" she announced to the guard, gesturing for him to unlock the cell door for her. 

  
The guard quickly tapped his wand to the bars of the door, unlocking them with a metallic clang. Walburga took a step towards the door, feeling a painful pull as her tigress was forced to get to its feet and follow her out, depriving Sirius of the protective glow it had shrouded him in. 

  
Sirius's form was reduced to a mere shadow at the centre of the cell once more as the light of the two patronuses left him in the dark. Walburga could just make out the sight of him seeming to curl tighter inward on himself against the cold as the door was locked behind her after leaving the cell. 

  
"Best we hurry out of here" said the guard, pulling his too-thin cloak tight around his shoulders once again. "The deeper into the night we get, the more active they are" 

  
He glanced out of a nearby window nervously, just in time to see the ominous spectre of a dementor swoop past the prison wall. 

  
"Wait" said Walburga, halting suddenly as she began to reluctantly walk away from the cell. 

  
Her chaperone's impatience was plain for all to see as he looked back to find out the cause of the delay, but Walburga paid him no mind. He was paid to be here, after all. 

  
She took a step back to stand in front of Sirius's cell and pointed her want to the ceiling. A beam of amber light was shot up at the ceiling, highlighting the stone in it's glow for a moment before it burned out. 

  
As the light diminished, the echoing sounds of water drops ceased, the holes in the ceiling mended. 

  
"Now, we can be on our way" said Walburga, forcing herself to walk away from her son. 

  
It will not be long, she assured herself silently. 

  
They journeyed back down through the tower in silence, the pained moans and whimpers of the prisoners being the only noise that filled the void between them. 

  
Only once they were safely out at sea in the dinghy, journeying back to the mainland and out of the dementors' reach, did the young wizard see fit to speak. 

  
"Well then, was your visit worth it?" he asked, taking Walburga aback slightly at the utter impertinence of his question. "Did you get what you wanted?"

"No" she replied, coolly, her the strands of her plan of action already beginning to weave themselves together in her mind. "But I intend to" 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walburga embarks on a make-or-break visit to the one wizard whom she knows she will not succeed in her task without...

**7th March 1984**

The chill of Azkaban seemed to cling to Walburga for the entire journey home. Even huddled inside her thick winter cloak, she felt as though she were in at the mercy of an icy wind which seeped right into her, chilling her to the bone. 

  
If this was the effect of a visit lasting barely an hour, under the protection of a patronus charm, she shuddered to think about what it full force of the dementors' wrath felt like to a poor, unprotected soul, languishing at their mercy day after day, month after month, year after year...

  
As she stepped through the Floo fireplace and out into the drawing room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, Walburga breathed a sigh of relief as she shrugged off her travelling cloak, allowing it to fall into the waiting, spindly arms of the ever-loyal Kreacher at her feet. 

  
"Will Kreacher prepare some tea, Mistress?" the bat-eared elf asked, bowing his head. 

  
"Yes" said Walburga, then paused to think for a moment. "Wait. On second thoughts, prepare me a hot chocolate instead" 

  
She wasn't usually one for such sugary beverages, but the healing powers of chocolate after an encounter with the dementors of Azkaban were famous the country over. 

  
"As you wish, Mistress" replied Kreacher, not for a moment thinking to question his mistress's most unusual choice. 

  
His was not the place to have opinions on any of his owners' matters, only to obediently carry out the orders they gave him. 

  
Walburga walked across to the gold-framed mirror on the opposite wall to examine herself, frowning at the state of her wind-swept hair and cheeks flushed an unflattering shade of red with cold. The icy, Scottish winds had left her looking quite dishevelled, most certainly not a state she deemed acceptable, regardless of the fact that there was nobody else here to see her.

  
"Kreacher" 

  
The elf paused mid-step, his back crooked under the weight of his mistress's now carefully-folded fur cloak. 

  
"Draw me a bath, as well" said Walburga, attempting to brush the wind swept locks of her hair back into place with her fingertips. "The weather in Scotland was quite foul"

  
"Of course, Mistress" said Kreacher, not for a second considering forgoing his humble bow on account of his already crooked back. "Right away" 

  
The elf scuttled off to carry out his tasks, leaving Walburga alone with her thoughts.

  
She took a deep, calming breath. She had expected her visit to be one of heavy emotions, but the nature of the emotions she found herself weight down by were quite different from the ones she had anticipated. 

  
She had expected to return home with a sense of closure and acceptance of her son's imminent demise. 

  
What she was left with instead was a deep and strong determination to save him from his illness and a burning desire to reclaim him. 

  
The duration of her journey home had been spent pondering the plan already rapidly forming in her mind, her drive to ensure its success growing ever-stronger the more the individual details weaved themselves together in her mind. 

  
The first, and most crucial step in the process, would be to pay a visit the one person who's assistance she knew she would not be successful in her mission without. 

  
Walburga glanced across the room at the clock on the mantle of the fireplace. It was just after nine o'clock. Rather late to be sending correspondence, but this simply couldn't wait until morning. There simply wasn't a moment of time to spare.

  
She hurried through to the small library, waving her wand at her desk in the corner as she approached it so that by the time she had sat down, a fresh roll of parchment was laid out and ready before her, her quill freshly-dipped in ink and poised in mid air, waiting to be grasped by her hand. 

  
This was not a letter she could ever have anticipated writing more than a few hours ago, nor was its recipient someone she had previously entertained the idea of ever seeing again voluntarily, but her son needed her, as so she began to write. 

  
_Good evening,_

  
_I am writing to you regarding a matter which has recently arisen which is of great significance to the family as a whole, as well as to your own personal interests._

  
_I would appreciate it if we could arrange a meeting to discuss this matter at your earliest convenience, ideally sometime tomorrow._

  
_I apologise for the late hour of this letter's arrival, as well as the short notice of my request, however I cannot stress enough the time-sensitivity of the matter which we must discuss._

  
_I look forward to receiving your owl and hope this letter finds you well._

  
_With my regards,_

  
_Walburga Black_

  
She carefully folded her letter into an envelope, sealing it with black wax stamped with the Black crest. 

  
It had been so long since she had sent a letter, Walburga noted, that she was sure this mostly-unused stick of wax hadn't been replaced in close to a year. 

  
She walked through to the front parlour, the room with a tall window which overlooked the street of Grimmauld Place. In the corner by the window, sat on her perch, was Vesta, Walburga's tawny owl. 

  
Vesta was a vastly under-worked creature. She had been presented to Walburga as a birthday gift five years ago by her husband, a replacement for her recently-departed owl whom Lucretia had joked had died of exhaustion as a result of his mistress's relentless supply of letters to deliver. 

  
By comparison, Vesta had lived a life of leisure. Within a few short months of joining the Black family, Walburga's world had fallen apart one death at a time, and her withdrawal almost entirely from the social circles which she had once dominated meant that the tawny owl's workload was remarkably light. 

  
She would take a lazy, fluttering flight around the neighbourhood, hopping from tree to tree once in a while, perhaps even indulging in a rare spot of hunting, but her days were largely spent relaxing on her perch by the window, undisturbed by matters relating to the job for which she had been purchased.

  
And so, when her mistress approached her so late in the evening, gesturing for her to hold out her leg to have a letter affixed to it, Vesta gave a sharp screech of protest.

  
"Enough of that" Walburga scolded, sharply. "It's been weeks since I've last given you a task. You've hardly cause to complain about your lot"

  
With a sulky hoot, Vesta hopped onto the window sill and leaped into flight as Walburga held the window open for her. 

  
Walburga watched her owl fly off into the night, breathing a sigh. 

  
The first step had been taken.

  
She turned away from the window, her mind drifting towards the thought of the relief her hot chocolate would bring and anticipation of the work to be done tomorrow.

  
An hour or so later, as she was sat at her dressing table in her nightgown running her comb through her freshly-washed hair, Walburga heard a faint tapping noise at her bedroom window. 

  
On the outside sill sat Vesta, a new letter affixed to her leg and a thoroughly displeased expression marring her handsome face. 

  
"Perhaps I ought to loan you to the post office" said Walburga, raising her eyebrows at the bird as she removed the letter. "I should think a week or so of real work would teach you not to be so sulky having to make a single round trip" 

  
Vesta gave a chirp of displeasure, flapping her wings in protest. 

  
"Then we'll have no more of this sulking" said Walburga, nodding in the direction of the bedroom door. "Now, back to your perch with you" 

  
With a flash of her amber eyes, Vesta took flight, fluttering delicately out of the bedroom and back downstairs to her spot in the front parlour. 

  
Walburga shivered a little as she closed the window. The early spring weather was still far too chilly, the claws of winter still clinging defiantly onto the city. With a flick of her wand to the bedroom fireplace, the flames in the hearth gave a quick burst of energy, sending a wave of warmth throughout the room before settling down once more. 

  
Walburga never could stand a cold house. 

  
She walked over to sit on the edge of her bed, anxiously fiddling with the envelope, anxious to read the reply to her request.

  
The parchment within was personalised - the Black family crest looming large at the top of the page, a formal mark reserved exclusively for the use of the head of the family, the page itself bordered in jet-black. Her heard beating anxiously inside her, Walburga began to read.

  
_Good evening,_

  
_Your letter finds me well, as I trust mine finds you._

  
_I will expect you at my office at Noire House at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning in order to discuss the matter to which you refer._

  
_With regards,_

  
_Arcturus Black_

  
Walburga's eyes scanned over the word of her father-in-law's letter several times. It's short-and-sharpness were typical of Arcturus Black, never one to waste neither words nor ink on flimsy pleasantries. 

  
But then again, neither was she. 

Walburga breathed a sigh of relief as she folded the letter back into its envelope and placed it on her bedside table. He had not said refused to see her, as she had feared he might.

The thought of coming face to face with Arcturus for the first time in years was not a pleasant one. Though she bore her father-in-law no real malice, he was a cold, blunt man whom Walburga had never been able to warm to. Never one to shy away from striking at the faults of others, he was a man who did not let go of grudges. And his daughter-in-law's self behaviour these last few years was most definitely something Walburga highly doubted he would pass up the opportunity to berate her for. 

  
But, nevertheless, it must be done. For Sirius's sake. 

* * *

**8th March 1984**

  
Noire House had all the potential to have been one of Walburga's favourite of all the Black residences dotted up and down the country. Set deep in the heart of Suffolk and surrounded by rolling meadows and ripe, game-filled forests, it was a place of peaceful, rural seclusion in which one could unwind and relax in the serenity of the countryside, forgetting about the noise, grime and hustle-and-bustle of London. 

  
Walburga had always been far more of a country person than a city-dweller at heart. And as such, it would make sense for her to look forward to visits to Noire House. 

  
Unfortunately, Noire House also happened to be the residence of choice of Arcturus Black, her father-in-law and patriarch of the Black family. 

  
Walburga and Arcturus Black had never shared what one might call a "warm" relationship. She could recall memories of him right from when she was a small girl - a looming figure with an air of authoritative grandeur about him. He was one to be respected, feared, perhaps liked, though always from afar. To expect a warm handshake and welcoming smile from Arcturus Black was like expecting a nogtail to fly. Walburga was certain she could count the times the aged wizard had smiled in true delight on one hand. 

  
And so, as she stepped out of the fireplace and into the grand reception hall of the country manor, she knew far better than to expect a warm greeting from the wizard she had actively avoided meeting for the last half-decade.

  
Walburga glanced around her at the vast, empty room. It had been many years now since she had last visited Noire House - was her last visit one of Arcturus's annual birthday gatherings? Or had there been some other required weekend visit since then? She could scarcely remember. Visits to Noire House had a tendency to blend into a mish-mash of interchangeable memories to her, each one passing by in a succession of formal dinners with distinguished guests, shooting lunches out on the meadow, evenings spent gathered around the drawing room fireplace at the mercy of Arcturus's latest topic of complaint. 

She had not visited since the discovery of Regulus's death. Of that, she was certain. This fact alone brought the painful reality of her child's untimely demise come crashing back to her once again. She quickly stifled it with a few deep, composing breaths. Now was not the time to fall apart. Gathering her wits about her, she donned her mask in preparation for the task ahead.

  
Nothing had changed, Walburga noted as she glanced at the room around her. Each wooden panel of the walls was as shining as it had always been, each suit of armour highly polished, not a hair out of place on the magnificent wampus rug in the centre of the room, each of it's snarling fangs sparkling. The grand setting of Noire House was tirelessly maintained in pristine condition by a small army of house elves, each one dedicating their wretched existences to the effort of preserving the illusion that the Blacks were still a dynasty to be reckoned with. 

She turned to look back at the fireplace from which she had emerged. Directly above it, looming large upon the chimney breast, was the Black family coat of arms, the family motto "Toujours Pur" in shining, golden letters below it.

This house is a museum, Walburga thought to herself, sadly. A monument to the memory of what once had been.

  
Walburga strode through the hall in the direction of the great oak staircase, acutely aware of the echoing click of her heeled shoes throughout the high-ceiling-ed room, all the more emphasising the almost eerie silence which surrounded her. 

  
As she rounded the corner, she suddenly paused, finding herself struck by a memory as the foot of the grand staircase came into view. 

  
_It was many summers ago, in the midst of one of the many mid-year trips she and her family had taken to Noire House. Walburga was sitting out on the terrace, writing letters. Suddenly, the peaceful sounds of the rustling leaves in the breeze and twittering of birds was rudely punctured by the loud, pained yelp of a small child._

  
_Walburga's hand jolted in shock at the noise, splashing a large blot of ink from her quill onto the parchment._

  
_Instantly, she was on her feet and rushing off in the direction of the noise to investigate._

  
_She followed the sounds of pained moaning to the foot of the oak staircase, where her seven-year-old son, Sirius, lay in a crumpled heap on the polished parquet floor, clutching his right shoulder._

_At his side, his hands clasped over his mouth in shock, stood her younger son, Regulus, looking positively petrified with fright._

  
_"Sirius Orion Black!" Walburga shrieked, marching over to her son. "What ever have you done now?"_

  
_"Nothing!" her son practically shouted back, the obvious pain in his voice only highlighted his clear urgency to hide the actions that had led him to this state._

  
_Sirius Orion might be a bright child, but masking his emotions was not a skill he was gifted with._

  
_Walburga crouched down beside Sirius. She reached out to pull him, firmly, up into a sitting position, ignoring his whine of protest._

  
_Her anxious eyes examined her son, checking for any injuries other than the obviously-dislocated shoulder from the way that Sirius clutched it. None could be found. Thank goodness for small mercies._

  
_Reassured, she turned her attention back to the question at hand._

  
_"Sirius Orion, tell me this instant what happened" she ordered, sharply._

  
_Sirius's face was twisted with the effort of trying to conceal his pain and play down his injury - no doubt in a fruitless attempt to avoid inevitable punishment._

  
_"I- I slipped" he mumbled, not looking his mother in the eye._

  
_"You slipped"_

  
_Walburga was not convinced for once second._

  
_She grasped her son firmly by the chin and forced him to look at her. Sirius Orion never could hold a lie when forced to look the person he was trying to deceive in the eye._

  
_"Tell me what happened"_

  
_Sirius's defiant, stony expression gave way to one of sulky defeat._

  
_"I slid down the banister" he muttered, his voice quiet. "But I fell off"_

  
_"I see" said Walburga, maintaining her grip on her son's chin.  
_

_Sirius's eyes quickly looked away as he saw the flash of anger on his mother's face, forcing his own into a scowl of protest._

  
_Walburga suppressed a sigh of frustration._

  
_It had been only that same morning that Walburga had warned her two boys (though Regulus Arcturus scarcely needed telling) to be careful and not to play inside the house, unless it be their bedroom._

_Her warnings were well-justified. She knew only too well, from first hand experience, how slippery that banister was. One could not be lulled into a false sense of security by how it was wide enough for a small child to sit on._

  
_Her son had disregarded her orders. He had wilfully done the exact opposite of what he had been told and had put himself into needless danger, yet again. His mother wanted to shake him, such was her frustration at his wilfulness._

  
_"Hold still" she said, firmly._

  
_Sirius flinched as Walburga's hand reached out for him again, letting out a desperately-suppressed whimper as she took firm hold of him, jabbing her wand tip into the side of his injured shoulder._

  
_With a flash of blue light, there was a sickening CRACK as the dislocated joint was set back into place._

  
_Sirius let out a pained cry which echoed loudly through the room, unable to hold back any longer._

  
_Walburga squeezed her son's arm in several places, double-checking her work. All was healed._

  
_"Now" she said, standing up and brushing off her skirts. "Since you clearly cannot be trusted to play sensibly, you will spend the rest of the day in your bedroom"_

_Sirius's mouth fell open in shock._

  
_"But Mama-!"_

  
_"Be_ quiet _, Sirius" Walburga hissed. "You will go to your bedroom until I decide you may come out and that is final. I will not have you running amok, behaving so disgracefully. In any case, you ought to rest your shoulder. Regulus-"_

  
_The younger boy, who had stood, silent, of to the side whilst Walburga dealt with his brother, flinched at the sound of his name. His grey orbs immediately looked up at her attentively._

  
_"I trust you have learned not to follow your brother's example in future?" Walburga asked, raising her eyebrows at the boy._

  
_Regulus nodded frantically._

  
_"Yes, Mama" he answered, meekly._

  
_"Good. Then you may run along and play. Off you go"_

  
_Regulus clearly looked as though he would much rather spend the sunny afternoon cooped up inside with his brother in their bedroom than outside alone, but he knew better than to disobey his mother. He turned away and began to walk off in the direction of the door which led out to the terrace._

  
_Turning her attention back to Sirius, Walburga grasped him firmly by the upper of his unaffected arm and hauled him to his feet._

  
_She had expected one of his trademark whines in response, but was surprised to receive little more than a suppressed whimper as the boy was lifted to his feet._

  
_As she began to haul him up the stairs in the direction of his bedroom, Walburga glanced down at her son, noticing the unpleasant scowl marring his face, a poor attempt at masking his misery at being both injured and punished. She sighed internally to herself. Sirius Orion could never simply admit when he was beaten. He always had to be stubbornly defiant, to the very end._

  
Walburga slowly approached the staircase, pausing at the same spot in which she had mended and chastised her injured son all those years ago. Once, perhaps, this memory might have ignited a sense of nostalgia - just one of the many examples of Sirius's childhood misadventures. But now, in the present situation, it brought only melancholy. 

  
She continued on her way, heading up to the first floor of the house - the floor which housed Arcturus's study. 

  
Walburga paused outside the heavy wooden door for a moment, gathering her thoughts before rapping her knuckles on the wood. 

  
"Enter" came a gruff voice from inside. 

  
A metallic clinking sound came from the door as it was magically unlocked by it's occupant and Walburga opened it, finding herself face to face with Arcturus Black for the first time in several years. 

  
The elderly wizard sat at his desk, hunched over the parchment on which he was reverently scrawling away at. His knarled fingers were barely visible under the heavy sleeves of his thick, velvet, dark-red robes. Strands of his thick, grey hair fell into his eyes as he wrote, his brow furrowed in concentration - or annoyance. One could never be sure which. 

  
He did not look up as Walburga entered, nor as she crossed the length of his study to stand before him. 

  
Walburga had never entered her father-in-law's study before. She had never had reason to. Matters of the estates and accounts which were discussed in here were between Arcturus and Orion. And so, for the first time, she had the opportunity to glimpse inside the room which her husband had so seemed to dislike being summoned to. 

  
At first glance, it seemed to be a study by any other room of the name; the walls lined with shelves upon shelves of books. several large writing tables scattered with papers, ink and parchment rolls, the occasional framed painting upon the wall. But on closer inspection, one could see the details which defined this room as Arcturus's own.

  
The various cabinets and end tables were littered with framed photographs featuring one of his greatest sources of pride - his crups. Each frame contained a shot of dogs on winners' pedestals at various international dog shows and stood obediently at the feet of hunters holding up the jarveys the dogs had successfully sniffed out. If one were to peer closer at the array of bookshelves, one could find as many manuals on crup breeding and training as wizarding genealogy volumes or texts on magical history. Arcturus was the proud owner of one of the most successful kennels - and purest pedigrees, naturally - of crups in Europe. 

  
In many such studies, one might find framed family photographs on display. Sentimental snapshots to cheer oneself during a stressful day's work or to proudly boast at any visitors. This was not true in Arcturus Black's case, however. Amidst the many photographs out on display, not one of them featured his wife, children or other extended family. To outsiders, this may seem coldly unsentimental. But to the Blacks, that was simply Arcturus. 

  
Stood before her father-in-law's desk, Walburga cleared her throat loudly, announcing her presence. 

  
Arcturus looked up, his grey eyes peering at her for a moment before he at last set down his quill in it' silver holder. 

  
"Walburga" he greeted, bluntly. "Good morning" 

  
"Good morning" Walburga replied, her voice equally blunt. 

  
Neither of them saw any point in feigning the happy family reunion which they both knew neither of them felt. 

  
"Take a seat" 

  
Arcturus reached for his wand set beside his parchment on the desk and gave it a flick. 

  
A high-backed, chair of padded red velvet materialised in the blink of an eye. 

  
"Thank you" said Walburga as she sat down. 

  
"I suppose it would be hospitable of me to offer tea?" Arcturus cocked a grey eyebrow up at Walburga questioningly. 

  
"It would" replied Walburga, stiffly. "Though I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble"

  
"Not at all" said Arcturus unenthusiastically. 

They may not be willing to stretch to the illusion of friendliness, but they would, at least, endure the basic niceties of a meeting between family members.

  
He gave a click of his fingers and with a loud CRACK, a shrivelled house elf appeared at his side, the wretched creature practically bent double with cowed humility. 

  
"Tea, Hetty" barked the old wizard, causing the elf to flinch. He nodded vaguely in Walburga's direction, indicating that he wished it for two. 

  
"Right away, Master" said the house elf with an urgent nod of her head, her large ears flopping back and forth comically. 

  
"Is that a new one?" asked Walburga once the elf had disappeared back to the kitchens. "I don't recall seeing it before" 

  
"Oh, a good few of years now, I believe? I needed a replacement for one of the old ones that passed away a little while back" 

  
Arcturus sat back in his chair, fixing his daughter-in-law with a hard, cold stare. 

  
"But then, you would know that, had you bothered to so much as write once in a while, let alone pay a visit" 

  
Walburga clenched her jaw, glancing down at her hands folded in her lap before looking back up at him. 

  
"It has been a long time, I admit" she said, quietly. 

  
Arcturus huffed. 

  
"It has indeed" he agreed, his voice heavy with accusation. 

  
Before Walburga could decide how to reply, there was another loud CRACK and the house elf re-appeared, clutching a tea tray. 

  
The witch and wizard sat in tense silence and the elf served the tea, their identical grey eyes occasionally flitting up to glance across the table at the other, neither one prepared to be the first to forgo their masks. 

  
At last, the elf was gone.

Walburga busied herself with stirring her tea, buying herself a few precious moments to consider the apology she knew Arcturus would require of her before he saw fit to so much as consider her request of him. 

  
Arcturus, in turn, sipped his own tea in silence, clearly awaiting for Walburga to make the first move.

  
"I apologise for the length of my absence" she eventually said, after taking an encouraging sip of tea. The hot, bitter liquid warmed her insides, spurring on her determination. "It was wrong of me to forgo visiting for so long" 

  
"On that, we can agree" Arcturus replied, gruffly. "Utterly ridiculous, hiding yourself away in that house day in, day out for Merlin knows how many years-"

  
Five years, Walburga thought to herself over the sound of the old man's ranting. Hardly an age. 

  
"-without so much as a care for the rest of the family!" 

  
Arcturus heavy-handedly put down his cup and saucer with a huff, staring off to the side, allowing silence to reign between them once more. 

  
"Not that you yourself ever requested a visit to Grimmauld Place" Walburga replied after several moments, her eyes fixed straight at her father-in-law, poised for a challenge. 

  
Arcturus's eyes fell upon her, a clear flash of annoyance evident in his grey gaze before he looked away once more. 

  
"I- have no business at Grimmauld Place" he muttered.

The truth of the matter was that Arcturus Black avoided as many reminders of his late son as Walburga did. The aged Black patriarch could not bear the thought of returning to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, the house he had formally handed over to his only son and heir as a gift upon his marriage to Walburga, retiring to the relative peace and quiet of Noire House with his wife, Melania.

  
It had been barely a week after Orion's death that Arcturus had sent several of his most loyal (or cowed, rather) house elves to collect the vast array of family documents, accounts books and correspondence from Orion's study and transfer them to Arcturus's own house, infuriating Walburga at the indignity of the lowly creatures scuttling about her house, gathering up her husband's life's work and scuttling away with it all like thieves in the night. 

  
It was necessary, of course. Arcturus would require the materials in order to take back the reigns of running the family's monetary matters, a task which he had handed over fully to his son many years ago. But the callousness of him sending such lowly creatures to carry out the task, as though he deemed it below him, infuriated his grieving daughter-in-law more than she could say. 

An fury which Arcturus had allowed to fester, cultivated by her raging temper, rather than admit that he found the thought of being surrounded by his son's possessions too hard to bear. 

  
Walburga took another sip of her tea, quelling the fury that this painful memory still ignited when she looked at her father-in-law. 

  
"Well then. I would say there are faults on both sides of this particular argument" she said, primly, placing her teacup down and folding her hands in her lap. 

  
"I have not come here to quarrel" she said as Arcturus opened his mouth to argue back. "As I said in my letter, I have come regarding-"

  
"Yes, yes, _'a matter of great significance'_ , I remember" Arcturus interrupted impatiently. 

  
He did not seem convinced that this matter was indeed something which would greatly concern him. His bored expression clearly suggested to Walburga that he thought this some womanish fancy that he would either dismiss as nonsense or put to rights in ten minutes, leaving him plenty of time to get back to his day's tasks. 

  
He raised his teacup to his mouth for another sip.

  
Allow me to relieve you of that notion, Walburga thought to herself, smugly. 

  
"It concerns Sirius" she announced. 

  
Arcturus jolted, coughing as he choked on his tea mid-sip. 

  
" _Sirius?_ " he repeated, his iron gaze flaring with instant annoyance at the mention of his criminal eldest grandson.

  
"Yes" said Walburga, firmly. "Sirius" 

  
There followed a pause in which both witch and wizard held each other's stare, as though daring the other to be the first to continue. 

  
"What about him?" Arcturus demanded, snappishly. 

  
"I had a letter from the Ministry-" 

  
Walburga reached into the inside pocket of her cloak and pulled out the letter, pushing it across the desk towards Arcturus. 

"-the day before last"

Silence followed as Arcturus silently took the letter, bringing it close to his face for his strained eyes to read.

  
"He is very ill" Walburga continued, careful to keep her voice even and emotionless. "Dying" 

  
Arcturus's brow furrowed as his eyes scanned over the words of the letter. 

  
"They've offered a visit..." he murmured, thoughtfully, half to himself.

  
"Yes" 

  
"Absolutely not" said the wizard, firmly, tossing the letter back onto the table. "I forbid it"

  
"It's a little late for that, I'm afraid" Walburga struggled to keep her annoyance out of her voice as she spoke. "I've already been to see him" 

  
Arcturus jerked his head up to look at her, his iron eyes flashing with anger. 

  
"You've _been to see him_?" he snapped. "In _Azkaban_?" 

  
"Yes" replied Walburga, tilting her head up defiantly. 

  
"I did _not_ give permission for this!" Arcturus's hand smacked the top of his desk angrily, the teacups rattling unpleasantly.

  
Walburga refused to flinch before him. 

  
"I cannot see how I would require your _permission_ to visit him-"

  
"I am the head of this family" Arcturus hissed, rising from his chair as he spat his words. "Any official Ministry matters should be presented to me before any action is taken!"

  
"This is not a Ministry matter, Arcturus" Walburga replied, undeterred. "This was a matter of my wishing to visit my son before he dies. Would you really deny that of a mother?" 

  
Arcturus let out a growl of annoyance, collapsing back down in his chair grumpily. 

  
The old wizard had not given his elder grandson a thought since the day he had glared at his photograph on the front page of the Daily Prophet, his enviably-handsome features twisted with the manic pleasure of the chaos he had created. A shameful sight. An embarrassment to the noble and dignified family from which he hailed. 

  
Arcturus, in a fit of anger, had thrown the paper into the fireplace without so much as opening it and had watched as his grandson's crazed eyes stared at him through the flames. 

  
By Salazar, he had always known the boy was disgracefully wild and reckless. A shameful excuse for a Black, to abandon his family and duties to fester amongst Muggle-lovers and goodness knew what else. But it had never crossed Arcturus's mind to consider that his grandson would be capable of murder. 

  
But he was. Sirius Black, the last surviving heir of Arcturus's proud bloodline, the final hope for his legacy, was thrown in an Azkaban cell to rot, setting the Black dynasty firmly on an inevitable path to destruction.

Arcturus had buried all thought of him deep inside his mind and avoided all thought of the boy's very existence.

  
"How ill is he?" 

  
He wasn't even certain why he was asking. After all, his grandson had been dead to him from the day he ran away. Why should he care now?

  
"Very" 

  
Walburga's voice was forcibly calm. She glanced down at her lap, her hands clasped tightly as images of her son's pitiful state flashed before her mind's eye. 

  
"The letter is correct" she continued. "It is indeed fading fever. He won't last many more days" 

  
Arcturus sighed. 

  
"Well, that's that then" 

  
Walburga frowned, tilting her head to one side. 

  
"I'm sorry?" she asked, narrowing her eyes across the desk.

"The final confirmation" replied Arcturus, his voice gruff with displeasure. "The blood traitor will soon be dead and then that's us finished. The Black line will officially die out" 

  
Walburga gritted her teeth with annoyance as she observed her father-in-law's disappointed, almost sulky demeanour at the thought of the future in store.

  
"Not necessarily" she said, cautiously. 

  
Arcturus looked up at her suspiciously. 

  
"Oh?" 

  
Walburga took another encouraging sip of tea. This was it. The make-or-break moment.

  
"This needn't be the end" she said, fixing the patriarch with a hard stare. 

  
Arcturus scoffed. 

  
"And just what do you mean by that?" he asked. 

  
He seemed to mocking his daughter-in-law. It only spurred her on.

  
"Sirius need not die" Walburga said, firmly. "The fading fever is advanced, and it is true that there is no remedy. Or rather- there is no officially recognised remedy. I know of one in a potions book in the library at Grimmauld Place. The ingredients are, shall we say, hard to come by, but I am confident it could be done" 

  
To his credit, Arcturus did not interrupt his daughter-in-law's plans, which were so clearly, in his mind, little more than the crazed folly of a mother. A womanish fancy. 

  
"So, just to be clear-" 

  
The wizard leaned on one arm-rest, casually, as though settling in to hear a particularly amusing story or childish fancy. 

  
"You wish to save Sirius from death?"

Walburga nodded firmly.

  
"Yes"

  
Arcturus waved a hand in the air questioningly. He shook his head with a huff, his bemused expression darkening.

  
"To what end?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at his daughter-in-law.

  
"To allow him to run off again, carrying on with mudbloods and blood traitors, as he was before? For him to drag our family name through the mud all over again?"

Arcturus let out a disgusted noise, shaking his head and raising his hand in finality. As if to calm himself, he took another sip of tea, grimacing in displeasure as he swallowed the unsatisfying lukewarm liquid.

  
"No" he said, firmly. "I will not have that disgraceful wretch bring shame on this family again" 

  
Walburga sat in stoic silence through her father-in-law's rambling. Years of dealing with Arcturus Black taught one the best way to handle him; he should be allowed to say his piece, ramble as he saw fit, declare that he was right and his word was final, and then one could seize the chance to explain one's side of the story.

  
"I am well aware of Sirius's failings" said Walburga, calmly. "Do you think I could forget what he did? Of course I can't. But that was all some years ago now. A lot has changed. _He_ has changed"

  
"That insolent, ungrateful little whelp will never change" Arcturus shook his head dismissively. 

  
"You have not seen him" Walburga pressed on, refusing to be deterred. "The dementors-"

  
She paused, shuddering involuntarily at the very memory of them, something which did not go unnoticed by her father-in-law.

How curious to see the famously stubborn Walburga genuinely affected, if not quite afraid.

  
"They are truly something else to experience" she continued. "I was in there for barely an hour and if it hadn't been for my patronus, I daresay I wouldn't have been able to stand it in there for more than a few minutes" 

  
She lifting her teacup to her lips for another sip, the hot liquid soothing the sadness that the memories of her son in his present state brought sharply back to the forefront of her mind. 

  
Arcturus, to his credit, did not seize the opportunity to interrupt. He sat, his eyes fixed on Walburga curiously, apparently moved enough to be willing to at least hear her out. 

  
"If Sirius Orion is the same person he was after three years under the influence of the dementors, it will be nothing short of a miracle" said Walburga. "There is-opportunity. Opportunity for change But he will need our help"

  
" _Our_ help?" Arcturus repeated, furrowing his brow at Walburga. "And what, pray tell, has you presuming that _I_ will play any part in this scheme of yours?" 

  
"Sirius is your only surviving heir" said Walburga, squashing the pain in her chest that flared as she uttered the words. "I would have thought that by now you'd have grasped that the aim in all this is to have him fully reinstated within the family, in line to inherit as your heir. As such, he will need your help and guidance" 

  
Arcturus let out a raspy cackle.

  
"That boy of yours is irreparable" the old man retorted. "He was nothing but trouble from the day he came into this world and he is bound to be nothing but trouble now" 

  
Walburga's gaze hardened at the insult against her firstborn, however much truth their might possibly be in it. She opened her mouth to argue, but Arcturus was not finished. 

  
"And in any case, there is no point discussing what could be done with the boy if he were cured, because he won't be" he continued, dismissively. "In case you've forgotten, he's a convicted criminal serving a life sentence in Azkaban for mass murder"

  
"He is not" 

  
The force with which Walburga hissed the words across the desk made Arcturus pause for a moment. He was most unused to being spoken to so impertinently. 

  
"Oh?" he asked, wryly. "Then, pray tell, what _is_ he?" 

  
"He is serving a sentence for which he was never convicted" Walburga pointed out. "Sirius Orion never had a trial for his accusations. He was never formally convicted of his crimes"

  
"From what I gather there was little need" said Arcturus with a huff. "The evidence was overwhelming. The boy was found in the middle of a blown up street, surrounded by the remains of twelve muggles, cackling like an unhinged maniac"

  
He grimaced in shameful disgust at the thought. 

  
"Yes, well-"

  
Walburga swallowed, awkwardly. She did not like to remind herself of the specific of the events leaving to Sirius's arrest. But, appearances were all too capable of being deceiving. In her mind, without a proper trial, her son was as capable of being excused as any other wizard. 

  
"None of us truly know what happened that day. There was never a formal investigation. It was all simply swept under the carpet. The Ministry wanted a quick ending to the case. And who's to say they didn't jump to the wrong conclusion in their haste?"

  
Arcturus considered Walburga's words. It was true, those Ministry fools had not been known for their thoroughness during their dealings of crimes during the war, it was true. As a long-standing member of the Wizengamont himself, he of all people should know. He'd lost count of how many botched investigations he had heard explained in court, how many pleas of innocence were ignored for the sake of a satisfactory conviction to plaster over the cover of the next day's edition of the Prophet. 

  
The public had been frightened. They wanted reassurance from their Ministry. They wanted convictions. And undoubtedly, some had gone to Azkaban in error in Ministry's rush to provide this. 

  
But could it really be possible that his grandson was one of them? 

  
"And so your aim is to secure Sirius a trial, is it?" he asked. 

  
Walburga gave a firm nod. 

  
"Yes" she said, firmly. "It is. Once cleared of all charges and properly free, we will be in a position to rebuild"

  
"Rebuild?" 

  
"Yes. As I said, we will reinstate Sirius Orion in his proper place as your heir and rebuild the reputation and position of the Black family through him" 

  
Arcturus sighed, rubbing his temple. 

  
"This scheme of yours is pointless" he said with a shake of his head. "Never mind what truly happened that day - whether he's innocent or not, the second the Ministry agrees to a trial - if they were to even agree to it - the result may as well be decided that same minute. They'll throw him straight back into Azkaban, dragging the family name through the mud all over again for nothing. He would never be released. There's no hope of it"

  
"I wouldn't be so sure of that" Walburga flashed the aged wizard a knowing look. "The Ministry's decisions can be manipulated. Those fools have freed as many guilty parties as they have convicted the innocent. Everyone knows there are followers of the Dark Lord who walk free today after wriggling their way out under the pretence of blackmail, intimidation - why, even the Imperius Curse-"

  
Arcturus scoffed dismissively, but Walburga pressed on. 

  
"Oh come now, Arcturus, really! You of all people should know how many men are free today who shouldn't be, you sat in on most of the trials! Why, my own niece is married to one of them!"

  
Arcturus's eyes flashed dangerous at the mention of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. 

  
It was true, it was well known that Lucius had grovelled his way to freedom under the strongly-suspected pretence of having been under the Imperius Curse. He and Narcissa had put substantial financial investment into ensuring the Malfoy name remained at the top of the pecking order of social standing. Cygnus's daughter was shamefully dismissive of her Black roots, these days, fully investing in her new identity as a Malfoy in a typically-Slytherin method of social survival. And it had worked.

  
The triumph of the Malfoys compared to the downfall of the Blacks was a particularly sore spot for Arcturus - and Walburga intended to use it to her advantage. 

  
"How can you not wish to seize this opportunity?" she asked, leaning forward in her chair, her expression grave, as close to desperate as she was willing to allow. "The chance to restore the name of Black to its rightful place? We have _one_ chance presented to us. Just one. It will not come again. I am confident that if we combine forces, we will succeed. But if we do not act fast, Sirius Orion will die in a matter of days and the Blacks will be doomed to extinction. Is it really not worth at least _trying?_ " 

  
The old man's nerve was waning and his daughter-in-law could see it quite clearly on his stubborn but tired face. 

  
Inspired by his uncertainty, she went for the kill.

  
"Or would you rather see our family fortune and legacy go to a Malfoy?" she asked, silkily, leaning back in her seat and raising a questioning eyebrow. 

  
Anger flashed across Arcturus's wrinkled face. 

  
The thought of everything he held dear being passed over to Narcissa's boy as some second-rate inheritance was too infuriating a humiliation to think upon. And yet, with no male heirs, it was the fate that the Black legacy was destined for. To become little more than an asset from Draco Malfoy's mother's family to be absorbed into the greater Malfoy estate. The Black coat of arms proudly displayed in the entrance hall downstairs replaced with the Malfoy crest. What a bitter demise. 

  
"Now, hold on one moment" said Arcturus, raising a hand. "Let us consider, for one moment, that any of this were feasible. The fact still remains that the boy is dying in prison. The fever will claim him before there's chance to even petition the Ministry for a trial. What do you say to that in this scheme of yours, hmm?" 

  
"This is not something I have forgotten" replied Walburga, forcing herself to suppress a triumphant smirk. She was on the brink of success and she knew it. "With your support, and considerable influence, I would ask the Ministry to allow us to bring Sirius Orion home to die" 

  
Arcturus let out a small chuckle. 

  
"I fail to see what is so amusing" Walburga remarked, narrowing her eyes. 

  
"A mother pleading mercy" said Arcturus. "I never had the tugging-at-the-heartstrings method down as your weapon of choice, Walburga" 

  
"I will use whichever weapon at my disposal which I deem most effective" the witch replied, her voice low and dangerous. "Whatever is necessary to get me my son back" 

  
"Ah, so he's your son again now, is he?" Arcturus asked. "I seem to recall you making rather a grand statement of disowning the boy. Marring that tapestry with yet another hole in the process" 

  
Walburga fixed her father-in-law with a determined stare. 

  
"A scorch mark on a piece of cloth cannot undo what is bound by blood" she said, her voice as hard as stone. "Sirius Orion is my son. He is your grandson, and heir to the Black name. He has been since his father bound him to the family in the sacred ceremony on the day he was born. You know as well as I that such magic cannot be so easily undone"

  
Arcturus's face darkened at the mention of Orion. The outright mention of his deceased son was unofficially forbidden in his presence, as his family very well knew. She may have been absent from him for the last half-decade, but his daughter-in-law was not foolish enough to be unaware of this. 

  
And yet, in true Walburga fashion, she had ploughed on and done it anyway. 

  
The woman was as bold as her wayward whelp. 

  
He leaned back in his chair, heaving a sigh, deep in thought. 

  
His eyes wandered to one side, fixing upon the small, golden-framed photograph hidden behind a stack of books on the side of his desk. 

  
The black-and-white photograph had been taken shortly before his daughter's first year at Hogwarts. Eleven-year-old Lucretia stood proudly in her newly-bought black school robes, her long, black braids almost indistinguishable against the crisp, new fabric. The look on her face was one of almost triumph at having at last reached the milestone every young witch or wizard counted down the days until - their first year of school. 

  
Four years her junior and with his own first year of Hogwarts still a good way off, her younger brother would have had every reason to look up at his sister with envy. But that was never Orion's way. In the photograph he stood as stiffly upright as he had done all his life, his attention not focused on his sister in her smart new robes, but obediently towards the camera, eager that he should not mar the quality of the photograph with a display of inner emotion. 

  
Even as a child, Orion had had a knack for concealing his true thoughts and feelings that few wizards would ever achieve. His mastery of concealment had been an asset in his lifetime, though it turned out to ultimately be a key instrument in his downfall. 

  
Arcturus still felt a burn of anger when he was reminded of how his only son had hidden the illness which would eventually kill him, suffering in silence, denying his father the chance to attempt to procure suitable medical help for him. 

  
He looked away from his son's eyes staring at him from across the years through the photograph. It did not do well to dwell on the past. One could never go back, only forward. 

  
"As I said previously, I did not come here to quarrel" 

  
Walburga spoke quietly, indeed with a degree of calmness that Arcturus would scarcely have his famously hot-headed daughter-in-law down as being capable of. 

  
She leaned forward in her chair once more, fixing him with a look of utter sincerity. 

  
"I came here to ask for your help. To save my son, and in turn, to save our family"

  
Arcturus stared long and hard into Walburga's steel-hued gaze identical to his own, but could find not one trace of hidden motive, of smug scheming, of anything that might suggest what she said was anything other than the complete and utter truth. 

  
"By Merlin, you had better know what you're doing, girl" he eventually found himself saying. "For the sake of us all" 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walburga and Arcturus attend an all-important meeting with the Minister of Magic - and an uninvited guest - that will decide the fate of both Sirius and their plans...

**9th March 1984**

  
Walburga resisted the urge to pull her silver watch out of her pocket yet again. There was no point - it would not alter the time. It was almost five minutes to eleven, ten minutes after their scheduled meeting time and five minutes before their scheduled meeting with the Minister of Magic - and Arcturus had _still_ not yet arrived. 

  
Never one for lateness, she had arrived fifteen minutes earlier through one of the many gilded fireplaces that lined the vast hall and had marched along through the crowds of wizards and witches trudging wearily to their posts with the distinct air of authority which she was always careful never to leave home without. In her smart, velvet gown of deep emerald, with it's stiff collar and silver-embroidered sleeves and her black, fur-lined cloak, she stuck out clearly like a sore thumb amidst the Ministry workers in their dull, drab working robes, worn cloaks and drooping hats.

  
Walburga was perfectly well aware of how out of place she appeared amongst the surrounding workers, as were many of they themselves who passed by her spot in front of the golden fountain, shooting curious stares in her direction and up-and-down looks at her clearly-expensive attire. She was very clearly not here for work. Perhaps some of them knew who she was, or had an inkling. After all, such finely-tailored clothes were the mark of the well-bred of society. If they did, they were smart enough not to stop to enquire. Walburga Black was not a woman in the mood for small-talk today.

  
She sighed impatiently as she glanced around the bustling crowds in search of Arcturus. There was no sign of him yet. What on earth had possessed the man? Her father-in-law wasn't one particularly known for his impeccable timekeeping, but really, on a day like today? A make-or-break meeting with the Minister of Magic was no time to uphold the belief that as head of the family, the appropriate time of arrival was set less by prior agreement and more on the time that he saw fit to arrive.

  
It was a meeting which had rather surprised Walburga in just how quickly and easily it had been to arrange.

  
_"You're quite sure the Minister will agree at such short notice?" Walburga had asked yesterday as she watched Arcturus slide the freshly-written letter into the envelope._

  
_"Quite" said Arcturus as he melted the black wax over the opening and stamped it with the Black seal. "There are certain things a wizard of my standing is able to demand - and a last-minute meeting with the Minister of Magic about an important legal matter happens to be one of them. After all-"_

  
_He handed the letter to the owl sat sat on its perched beside his desk._

  
_"-as you say, this is a most_ time-sensitive _matter"_

  
Clearly I didn't clearly emphasise _just_ how time-sensitive the situation is, Walburga thought to herself irritably.

  
With little else to do, she found herself glancing up at the vast, golden fountain beside her - the Fountain of Magical Brethren. It was truly a gaudy piece of work, Walburga had thought to herself on each of her rare visits to the Ministry over the years (thankfully it was not often she had a need to visit the Ministry - legal matters were not of her domain. Usually). Others would marvel at the solid gold specimens, the craftsmanship of the centrepiece - the wizard and witch standing triumphant, and the centaur, goblin and house elf gazing up at them in awe of their might. Many would call it an ultimate representation of the harmony of the magical world, but Walburga saw it as nothing but a statement so bold as to crow vainly of the Ministry's supposed creation of a peaceful magical society. 

  
That was a lie. There existed no such world. At this very moment, whilst the crystal-blue water gushed from the wand-tip of the statue of the wizard, there were goblins sneering at the wizards they served and centaurs harassing wizards who dared to step foot on what they claimed was their land. And then of course, there was the influx of mudbloods into the wizarding community, which seemed only to grow larger by the day. How could one bask in the glory of a successful wizarding society when true, pure, magical blood continued to be watered down and dirtied?

  
What a disgraceful state of affairs. 

  
Walburga wrinkled her nose in distaste at the nearby sign proudly proclaiming that all moneys given to the fountain would be donated to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The sheer nerve of it, she thought to herself as she watched a nearby wizard lift his small daughter over the edge of the fountain so that she could drop a single silver sickle into the water with a delighted grin. Had the hospital no shame? Begging for crumbs by means of political propaganda when the hospital was frequently showered in generous bequests of gold by good, upstanding members of society?

  
Though apparently a lifetime of generosity isn't enough to buy you effective treatment when you need it, Walburga reminded herself bitterly as the stuttering apologies of the Healers who had informed her of her husband's imminent demise rang through her mind. 

  
The sound of a familiar tapping sound, ringing loud and clear through the sea of footsteps and murmurings, drew her out of her thoughts.

  
Walburga looked up to see Arcturus Black marching his way through the crowds of the Atrium towards her at last, leaning heavily on his ivory-handled cane. 

  
"I was under the impression we were meeting at quarter to eleven" she greeted him in a cool voice.

  
"I was held up" Arcturus barked dismissively. "Matters to deal with at the house"

  
He was dressed for the occasion, in a set of fine court robes, adorned with shining silver fastenings and a topped with a cloak of silky black fur, the clasp of which was a shining silver brooch in the shape of the Black family crest. At his chest was pinned his Order of Merlin, First Class medal, newly-polished and glimmering proudly in the light. In spite of his usual grumpy, inconvenienced expression, he had clearly made an effort to put on a show of his status, both within the Ministry and within the wizarding world itself. 

  
If Walburga had dressed to impress, Arcturus had dressed to intimidate.

  
Every little helps. 

  
Arcturus pulled out his golden pocket watch, peering down at the time. 

  
"Right, we'd best be off" he said, gruffly, unphased by their lateness. "This way" 

  
Arcturus marched his way through the crowds which seemed to part automatically to clear a path for him. Walburga followed in his wake, attempting to suppress her irritation at having to walk relatively slowly beside the stiff old wizard instead of at her usual brisk pace. She did so detest lateness. 

  
They made their way through the Atrium to the security checkpoint at the far end. It had been a number of years since Walburga had last visited the Ministry of Magic, in the long-ago years of peacetime, before the war. She had been vaguely aware of the increase in security checks that had been put in place in the last few years via remarks of complaint from her husband and other relations, but none of which could have prepared her for what she was about to endure now. 

  
Instead of joining the back of the short queue to be interviewed by a flustered-looking security witch, Arcturus marched them both up to a separate checkpoint manned by a rather bored-looking young man. 

  
"Arcturus Black, Order of Merlin, First Class. My daughter-in-law and I have an appointment with the Minister of Magic" he announced. 

  
The wizard sighed, flipping his way through a records book and tracing his finger down a list of names. 

  
"Name?" he said rudely to Walburga. 

  
"You've just been told who I am" Walburga replied, flashing an indignant look at the youth. 

  
"Just tell him" Arcturus barked grumpily. 

  
"Need to hear it from you" explained the boy. "So's we can tell if you're under a spell"

  
"Very well" said Walburga sharply. "I am Mrs Walburga Black, here with my father-in-law Arcturus for a meeting with the Minister - as you were _just_ told" 

  
The wizard nodded dully and held out his hand. 

  
"Wand, please"

  
"What precisely do you require my _wand_ for?" Walburga's guard was up. She had no little time for impertinence as a rule, let alone from such a dull piece of work as this young man.

  
"Have to check it over, Missus" droned the youth. He was unphased by the daggers being shot by the formidable witch before him - manning the VIP security desk day after day ensured he was much-used to being glared at by the upper-crust of wizarding society. 

  
"Very well" Walburga spoke coldly as she reluctantly placed her wand in the palm of the youth. 

  
She made a mental note to give it a thorough cleaning the minute she arrived home.

  
"Ta" 

  
The wizard placed the wand on a brass, scale-like contraption which vibrated on impact. 

  
"Elm wood, dragon heartstring?" asked the wizard. "Been in use since 1936?"

  
Walburga glared. Announcing the long-ago year of her wand's purchase felt as impertinent a sting as if he'd announced her very age to the surrounding crowds.

  
"Yes" she said. 

  
"Right, that's fine, then"

  
There would be trouble if it were anything other, I assure you, Walburga seethed to herself.

  
He handed her back her wand - and a silver visitors badge bearing her name and the words _"Prior-Arranged Meeting with Minister for Magic"_

  
"Is this entirely necessary?" Walburga asked, peering at the silver badge in distaste. She did not much fancy having such a gaudy piece of cheap tin pinned to her chest, nor did the idea of announcing her name and business to any old passer-by sound appealing in the slightest. 

  
The security wizard shrugged. 

  
"Ministry policy. Sorry, Missus" 

  
Walburga's jaw clenched. If he referred to her so crudely one more time- 

  
"Just put it on, will you?" Arcturus snapped beside her. "We haven't time to wait about whilst you decide if the damned thing goes with your gown" 

  
"Yes, yes, alright" Walburga pinned the silver badge to her chest. "May we proceed now?" She fixed the security wizard with an impatient glare. 

  
"Yeah, go on, then" The wizard jerked his head at the barrier gate which swung open to allow them through. 

  
Beside him, a levitating quill lowered to the page of his record book and drew a line through the parchment, crossing out two more expected arrivals. 

  
They marched through the barrier and joined the crowds heading towards the lifts. Walburga thought to herself how satisfied she should be to never have to encounter that particular rude young man ever again.

  
"This meeting you've procured us" she said to Arcturus as they made their way towards the far end of the Atrium. "Will it be with the Minister alone, or ought we to expect company?" 

  
"I didn't request any additional presence, though I should expect Bagnold has taken it upon herself to invite Crouch along" Arcturus replied, in a voice that clearly gave away his annoyance at the thought.

  
"Crouch..."

  
"Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement" Arcturus snapped, irritated at the thought of having to explain the ins and outs of the legal system to his daughter-in-law throughout this whole debacle. 

  
"I know who he is" Walburga hissed in reply.

  
"Well that's something at least" Arcturus huffed sarcastically. "Then again, who couldn't? A more shameless power-grabber I never did see"

  
Walburga's eyes darted around at the surrounding crowds, suddenly suspicious that ears far too keen for their own good may be listening in on their discussion. It surely wouldn't do to be overheard discussing one's personal opinions of high-ranking Ministry officials in such a public place. But the wizards and witches swarming around them seemed entirely oblivious to the presence of anyone in the vast Atrium but themselves. 

  
"You know he's after Bagnold's job?" Arcturus chuckled to himself with a shake of his head. "The fool" 

  
"Oh, I don't know. A change of Minister mayn't be such a bad thing. At least _he's_ from a proper family" 

  
Walburga made little effort to hide the distaste in her words. She did not, as a general rule, concern herself much with matters of politics - aside from the natural opinion that positions of power ought to be held only by those of proper magical stock. Such talk was much better suited to the after-dinner cigars-and-brandy environment of the menfolk - there was something decidedly unladylike about politics, with its bold opinions and passionate arguments. 

  
Which was precisely why the Minister for Magic, the halfblood witch Millicent Bagnold, was everything that Walburga disliked. 

  
"His breeding may be superior to Bagnold's, yes" Arcturus replied as they joined the crowd milling around the row of lifts which would take them down to the Minister's office on Level 1. "But he'll be lucky if that stubborn harpy allows him to pry the position from her cold, dead fingers" 

  
Walburga frowned again at her father-in-law's crude muttering in mixed company. But these halls of government were far more Arcturus's domain than they were hers, and no doubt he was well-accustomed with the Ministry employees' ability to filter out all surrounding conversations and focus on their own little worlds as they trundled about their daily tasks. 

  
Nevertheless, she elected not to reply. 

  
The lift doors opened with the tinkle of a bell and before she knew what was happening, Walburga found herself thrust forward by the crowds into the lift. Her hackles raised with indignation as she stood amidst the witches and wizards packed inside the small compartment around her. 

  
At her side, Arcturus's nose wrinkled in distaste at the cheap fabric of the robes pressed against his sides. 

  
Walburga was beginning to understand why her father-in-law so disliked visits to the Ministry of Magic. 

  
Before the doors could slide shut, a small swarm of flying paper memos swooped through, hovering above their heads, practically quivering with the anticipation of reaching their destination. 

  
Their time in the lift was mercifully short. After a sudden, swooping drop downwards, the force of which made Walburga instinctively press a hand to her hat to hold it steady, a witch's voice announced that they had arrived at Level 1. 

  
"The level reserved for the Minister and their support staff" said Arcturus as they exited the lift. "Always the first stop. Can't have the big-wigs crammed inside that death trap for too long, after all" 

  
Walburga glanced around at the mostly-deserted entrance hall. It was mostly empty, save for a few seating areas and end-tables. A few secretarial witches in navy blue robes hurried about, their arms heavy with rolls of parchment or leather-bound files. In stark contrast to the deafening noise of footsteps and voices of the Atrium, this level was eerily silent. The surrounding walls were lined with great mahogany doors, each leading to the office of a Ministry official. One door, however, stood taller than the rest at the centre of the far wall - the Minister's office. 

  
Walburga noted that there were very few paper memos soaring through the air up here. She doubted this was due to the high-ranking officials based here being in less demand - it seemed far more likely that there were significantly fewer people authorised to speak with them directly.

  
Walburga followed Arcturus's lead towards across the room towards the office. Unlike the polished but plain wooden floors of the Atrium, the floor on this level was thickly-carpeted in deep, royal purple. Their shoes practically sunk into the material as they walked, such was its richness. Even Arcturus's heavy cane did not create a thud that might break the silence that reigned around them. At the centre of the room, embossed into the carpet, was a great, golden print of the symbol of the Ministry of Magic - a large letter M with a glowing wand at the centre. 

  
How vulgar, Walburga thought to herself. 

  
Arcturus rapped his knuckles loudly three times on the mahogany door, just below the brass nameplate declaring this to be the office of Mrs Millicent Bagnold - Minister for Magic.

  
There was a silent pause just long enough to have Walburga begin to wonder if they ought to knock again - when finally, the door opened barely an inch and a large, crystal-blue eye peered out at them. 

  
"Yes?" asked the woman in a soft, high, almost nervous voice with an accent that Walburga couldn't quite place. "Can I help you?"

  
"Arcturus and Walburga Black" said Arcturus. "We've an appointment with the Minister at eleven o'clock" 

  
The young woman - as she moved, Walburga realised that her neatly up-swept hair was of such a pale, silvery shade of blonde that it almost seemed to shine - twisted her head, presumably to glance at a clock. 

  
"It is five past eleven, sir" she said softly. 

  
"Is that so?" Arcturus asked, his voice scathing with sarcasm. "I fail to see what concern that is of _yours_. Sand aside, girl"

  
"I cannot. Your appointment was at eleven o'clock, sir" the young witch replied, with a timid shake of her head. "The Minister insists on promptness" 

  
Walburga fought the urge to intervene as she watched Arcturus's face redden at the girl's impertinence.

  
Mercifully, an argument was prevented by a crisp female voice calling from inside the office. 

  
"It's alright, Anna, you can let them through" 

  
The woman's ice-coloured eyes flitted to one side for a moment before obeying the voice. She slowly and silently opened the door and allowed Arcturus and Walburga to pass through. 

  
The Minister's office was easily the showiest office Walburga had ever set foot inside. Tall, glass cabinets lined the length of one wall, each proudly displaying a trophy, plaque or framed document of some sort, like some gaudy declaration of their owner's seemingly-endless achievements. Even the wall-length wooden filing cabinet on the opposite side of the room doubled as yet another opportunity to put on a display of superiority, with the surface crammed with framed photographs of the Minister being presented with some award or other, shaking hands with dignitaries or beaming with triumphant pride mid-acceptance speech. 

  
The navy-coloured walls, combined with the deep, plum carpet would have made the windowless room seem rather darkened, if it weren't for the many candles affixed to the walls by golden holders.

The lighting was designed in a way that seemed to increase the closer it got to the centre point of the office - the wide desk of carved mahogany. 

  
The Minister for Magic, sat upright behind the desk with her hands neatly folded on top, seemed almost to be put under a spotlight by the effect. 

  
Millicent Bagnold, a woman of tall stature who couldn't help but give off an air of authority. She wore finely-tailored plain black robes with a simple, high-collared white blouse, lacking in all the feminine detailing which Walburga was so used to seeing on a lady's clothing - those vital finishing touches that perfected one's look. Her bronze-coloured hair was swept back in a tidy, but plainly styled bun. This was clearly not a woman with the time to spare for a particularly intricate morning dressing routine.

  
At her side, staring silently as they approached, was Bartemius Crouch Sr. Stern-faced and greying, and as tense as a tomcat ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. 

  
Unlike the Minister, Crouch did not offer the Blacks a polite smile in greeting as they approached. His sharp gaze flickered silently from Arcturus to Walburga. He seemed positively insulted that this meeting had been called at all.

  
Millicent's light brown eyes seemed to shine almost gold in the candlelight as she peered inquisitively at her guests approaching her desk, closely examining their every detail. She did not, as a rule, make a habit of failing to pick up on any vital points on first impressions. Her facial expression, however, gave away no clues as to her true thoughts on what she saw before her. 

  
"There is such a thing as being _too_ efficient, you know" she said to the blonde witch, not unkindly.

  
"I'm sorry, ma'am" replied the young woman, nervously wringing her hands. 

  
"It's quite alright" replied Millicent with a slight smile. "Perhaps you'd like to fetch our guests some tea?" 

  
"That won't be necessary, thank you" replied Walburga primly. 

  
She had no intention of turning this serious meeting into a cosy teatime chat. She was here with a purpose to fulfil and in no mood to humour any attempts to lure her into a false sense of security with feigned niceties. 

  
Besides - she did not put it past these time-pressed Ministry busybodies not to present her with a lukewarm dishwater affair in a _paper cup_.

  
Millicent directed her gaze towards Walburga, her expression polite, yet plain. 

  
"Very well" she said with a brisk smile. "In that case, if you'd both like to take a seat-"

  
She reached into the top drawer of her desk, pulling out her wand and giving it a flick at the space in front of her desk. Two gold-framed chairs with plush, navy seats appeared, matching the decor of the room perfectly. 

  
"Thank you" Walburga nodded in thanks, as both she and Arcturus took their seats. 

  
Crouch was neither offered his own seat nor conjured his own.

  
"You may leave us for now, Anna" Millicent said gently to the doe-eyed witch, who flinched at the sound of her name from where she stood off to the side with her hands clasped in front of her.

  
The young woman nodded silently, practically bobbing a curtsy to the Minister before she hurried to obey. 

  
"An intern I've taken on for the year" said Millicent to the two Blacks in answer to a question no one had asked. "Just out of Beauxbatons. Her mother is an old friend of mine working with the Danish Ministry. She has aspirations to follow in her mother's footsteps, one day"

  
If Millicent noticed the hint of disapproval on Walburga's face at the talk of witches at work in politics, she not only chose to ignore it, but seemed to see it as a cue to continue.

  
"She's keen to please, though I often fear she allows her nerves to get the better of her" Millicent's polite, semi-relaxed chatting continued, irrespective of whether her guests saw fit to reply. "I apologise for your troubled arrival. She does take her role as gatekeeper to my office rather seriously. I expect her attempt to refuse you entrance was more out of fear of reprimand by me than from intention to cause offence to you" 

  
"A little firm discipline often proves one of the most vital tools in a witch's education" Walburga replied pointedly.

  
"I'm sure" 

  
A most diplomatic reply from the witch who understood perfectly well that she was dealing with a counterpart who wholeheartedly disapproved of a girl's academic progression beyond her seven years of compulsory schooling.

  
The Minister held Walburga's gaze for a few moments, the two witches eyeing each other in mutual suspicion, hidden beneath a veil of politeness which neither had the slightest trouble seeing through.  
Millicent Bagnold was a woman had long-since mastered the art of diplomatic association with those who made no secret of the fact they they believed she ought not to be in the position she was in, and as such, Walburga Black was not a witch under who's icy gaze she was prepared to shiver. 

  
"Arcturus" Millicent broke the silence, turning her attention to Arcturus, who glanced up at the sound of his name. "Always a pleasure to see you here at the Ministry. Though, from what I heard, such occasions are rather few and far between, these days, are they not?"

  
"It- has been a while, yes" Arcturus murmured gruffly in reply, tapping his fingertips on the handle of his cane. 

  
"Nothing too serious keeping you from us, I hope?" Millicent tilted her head a little, eyeing Arcturus with polite curiosity. "You are _well_ , I trust?"

  
Walburga could see her father-in-law tense at the indignation of the implication of his frailty. Had a member of his own family dared to ask such a thing, he would have snapped loudly about how he would outlive the lot of them, so they needn't start bickering over the divvying up of his possession just yet. 

  
But this was the Minister of Magic, a woman who's position demanded respect - and whom neither of them were in absolutely no position to risk insulting. 

  
"Oh yes, quite well" Arcturus murmured awkwardly, clearing his throat. His fingers tapped on the handle of his cane. "Been rather busy of late, is all. Family business, estate matters and the like..."

  
Crouch masked a disbelieving huffing sound with a quick cough.

  
The eyes of the three seated all glanced up at him. 

  
"Are you quite alright, Barty?" Millicent asked. 

  
"Oh yes, terribly sorry, Minister" said Crouch, innocently. He rubbed at his throat for a moment. "Just a slight tickle" 

  
"I thought it appropriate that Mr Crouch ought to join us for this meeting" Bagnold explained to the two Blacks. "It seemed appropriate, given the subject matter. I do hope you don't mind?"

  
"Not at all" Arcturus muttered unconvincingly.

  
The elder wizard glared silently up at Crouch and was met with a look equally as unfriendly in response.

  
"Good" Millicent said briskly, choosing to ignore this display of mutual hostility. "Well then, we'd best get down to the matter at hand" The Minister reached into one of her desk drawers and pulled out a black leather-bound file stamped with the gold Ministry logo, identical to the many folders carried about in the arms of the secretarial witches in the reception hall outside. 

  
"Mrs Black-"

  
Walburga allowed herself to feel a just a hint of approval of the Minister's tact - she had expected the woman to attempt to feign some form of unwanted womanly friendship by referring to her by her first name, as so many others had impertinently tried to do over the years.

  
"-You visited your son, Sirius Black, in Azkaban the day before last, is that correct?"

  
"Yes Walburga replied. What a ridiculously obvious question. Bagnold was fully aware of the exact details surrounding their visit. No doubt the details were all right there in that file of hers.

  
"A visit authorised by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on the ground of..." Millicent flipped through the sheets of parchment bound together inside the file, running her finger over the ink.

" _'...prisoner's imminent death?'_ "

  
She glanced up at Crouch for confirmation. 

  
The wizard nodded, grimly. 

  
Walburga briefly found herself wondering why such a visit had been granted by a man who currently looked as though he had been forced to sign the authorisation papers at wand-point.

  
"Ah yes, fading fever" Millicent spoke thoughtfully, seemingly more to herself than anyone else, her eyes scanning over the words of the document before her. "A both incurable and fast-acting illness"   
The blunt, matter-of-fact way in which Bagnold commented on the illness currently ravaging its way through her son's body in Azkaban allowed a slightly put-out Walburga a glimpse through the Minister's carefully-constructed illusion of friendliness.

  
Though she was a woman of remarkable intelligence, exemplified by her straight-O grades across the board in both her OWL and NEWT results, the ex-Ravenclaw was a woman for whom the art of socialisation was the one subject in which she did not naturally excel. 

  
It was, however, a skill she had devoted considerable time and effort to mastering through each step of her journey up the political ladder. She could transfigure herself better than any spell, altering everything about how she presented herself to match precisely what was needed to deal with the situation or person before her. 

  
Occasionally, however, a glimpse of the true person beneath could be seen.

  
And now that the pleasantries of introductions had been said and done, Walburga saw the Minister transform from the ultimate image of diplomatic politeness to the ruthless leader who had led the Ministry of Magic through the darkness of the final years of the war on the back of harsh, unforgiving policies, maximum sentences and no second chances. 

  
And if the suddenness of how the warmth drained from her eyes as she read through Sirius's documents, she had not agreed to this meeting intending to grant the release of one of the most high-profile prisoners under her custody lightly. 

  
"Allow me to clarify-" she said, looking directly at Walburga. "You wish for your son to be allowed to leave Azkaban prison and spend his final days at home?" 

  
"That is correct" Walburga replied smoothly. 

  
"I see" 

  
These was a silent pause as Bagnold closed the file and leaned forward, resting her arms on top of her desk. 

  
"I'm sure I don't need to explain to you how unusual a request this is" she said evenly. "Nor how such a request might cause certain, shall we say, issues"

  
"I fail to see any such _issues_ , myself" 

  
The gruff input of Arcturus caused all eyes in the room to fall upon him, including one particularly distasteful glare from Crouch. 

  
"No?" asked Millicent, arching an eyebrow at the aged wizard. "You don't think such a request might pose certain problems for the Ministry?"

  
Bagnold's voice was smooth as silk, to the point where one might almost call it condescending.

  
"Not at all" Arcturus replied firmly. "The boy is on the brink of death in prison and his mother wishes to have him back at home for his last few days of life. I fail to see what problems such a thing could cause the Ministry of Magic" 

  
Before Millicent could reply, there was a loud scoff from beside her. 

  
"What utter rubbish" said Crouch, shaking his head with a scowl, his dark eyes glinting with dislike as he looked across from one Black to the other. "This entire suggestion is _completely_ preposterous. The Ministry does not imprison dangerous mass murderers only to have them released because their mothers weren't satisfied with their accommodation" 

  
Walburga glared daggers up at Crouch, dislike burning inside her the more she looked at him. She had never borne the man much by the way of approval - he was power-driven to the point of vulgarity, and had a reputation for his ruthless nature and obsession with his work, resulting in an ill-tended home life, even in the years before his only son was imprisoned alongside Walburga's own niece. This was not an incident of which either party wished to be reminded of - and no doubt was at least part of the reason behind the looks of deep dislike thrown back and forth between the pair.

  
Even Millicent had trouble masking her disapproving of Crouch's interruption. 

  
"All other factors aside-" she continued, firmly snatching back full control of the conversation. "I do feel the need to express how unusual this request is, Mrs Black. And I must ask - why?"

  
"I beg your pardon?" Walburga stared hard at the witch across the table. 

  
"Well, put quite simply - why now?" Bagnold raise her hands questioningly. "After all, Sirius Black has been imprisoned for-"

  
She peeked inside the folder before her. 

  
"-three years, now. We've never heard anything from any member of your before regarding his interests - and what with Arcturus here being a member of the Wizengamont, I'm sure you appreciate how... shall we say, curious, this makes the present situation seem" 

  
"Naturally" Walburga said coolly. "My son was... not on _good terms_ with the family for a number of years prior to his imprisonment. We'd had no contact with him for five years at that point"

  
It gave the matriarch no pleasure to speak of her private family matters in the presence of outsiders. In fact, it felt downright wrong. But in this case, it was necessary.

  
"And of course, naturally, we were just as deeply shocked by what he did as the rest of the public"

  
Crouch's eyebrows twitched in disbelief, a gesture which Walburga forced herself to ignore. 

  
"Why would we wish to take an interest in his well-being after learning what he did? Killing that poor wizard, Pettigrew?" 

  
Walburga's failure to include the slaughter of twelve Muggles in her description of her son's crimes did not go unnoticed by the Minister.

  
"I quite agree" Millicent offered Walburga a compassionate smile. "Which is why you must understand that this request does seem rather unusual" 

  
"I fail to see why" said Walburga with a haughty sniff. "Surely _you_ of all people would understand my point of view" 

  
"I'm sorry?" Millicent asked, narrowing her eyes, which made her smile appear all the more transparent. 

  
"Do not mistake me, Minister" said Walburga. "My son has done terrible things, I know. And more personally, I cannot ignore the shame he has brought on my family by his actions"

  
She paused for a moment, taking a deep, composing breath before continuing. 

  
"However, that does not mean that I can ignore that fact that in spite of it all, he is my _son_. And after seeing for myself what state he is in with my own eyes, I simply cannot ignore my own need to ensure that his passing is at least peaceful"

  
Walburga looked the other witch straight in the eye, their hard gazes clashing. 

  
"Surely you can appreciate the needs of a mother?" She fixed Bagnold with a knowing look. "After all, what in this world is precious if not the sanctity of _time_ with one's children?" 

  
The thinly-veiled quip in Walburga's words did not go unnoticed by the Minister. 

  
This was far from the first time that Millicent's status as a wife and mother had been used in a debate to try an sway her to her opposition's point of view. After all, her return to work scarcely a month after giving birth to her twin daughters almost two years ago had been the talk of the Prophet's opinion columns for weeks. 

  
The halls of the Ministry had been unbearable in the final months - the palpable feelings of excitement and impatience of the rivals surrounding her like vultures towards the end of her pregnancy. They were biding their time, eagerly awaiting the day when she would renounce her role as Minister and retreat to the cosy tranquillity of her home to raise her family, the life of government nothing but a distant memory - leaving the seat of power up for grabs, to be fought over like a carcass.

  
But to their shock and dismay, that day did not come. No announcement was made beyond the temporary handing over of the reigns of power to Crouch - a move which only made her all the more eager to snatch back control as soon as possible. Millicent had retreated for a few short weeks before returning to her post with her head held defiantly high and continued on with her role, to the wide shock and disapproval of many. 

  
The use of her motherhood against her was not a blow which Millicent Bagnold was able to be easily bruised by. 

  
It was, however, something that did give her an understanding of Walburga Black's position.

  
Bartemius Crouch, however, remained stoic in his opposition. 

  
"And suppose this is all simply some plot?" he demanded, folding his arms. "Suppose your aim is to try and somehow save him?"

  
"Balderdash" Arcturus snapped, scowling at Crouch. "The boy has _fading fever_ , Crouch. Even the dimmest of wizards know there's no cure for _that_ "

  
Crouch opened his mouth to retort but was reluctantly silenced when the Minister beside him sharply raised her hand, shooting him a sideways warning look to hold his tongue. 

  
"It does have to be said, Mrs Black" Bagnold continued, gently. "That it does seem rather unlikely that such a notion would not come to your-"

  
"I am under no illusion that my son can be saved" Walburga interrupted sharply.

  
"Walburga..." 

  
The witch silenced her father-in-law's warning growl with a dangerous glare. Contrary to the thoughts most likely running through his mind, she was not, in fact, about to give in to one of her famous fits of temper. She had a war to win, and she would not rest until it was won. If there was ever a time to keep a tight hold on her emotions, it was now.

  
"I have accepted the fact that my son will die" she said plainly, looking directly at the Minister, who eyed her with an air of curiosity. "Of _that_ , you can be assured. I have seen Sirius's condition for myself and am well resigned to the idea that he will be dead in a matter of days - and that I will be left a childless mother" 

  
Her words poured from the depths of her heart. It rather unnerved her to find herself so willing to speak the thoughts that she had been hesitant to fully express to herself before now. But all this talk of Sirius's demise brought images of his broken, wasted-away form back to the forefront of her mind, and she could not seem to stop herself. 

  
Millicent examined the middle-aged witch before her, taking in the way she carefully controlled her breathing in a clearly desperate attempt to keep the composure she was sure she would be outraged with herself for losing in public. She may sit stiff and tall, she may glare haughtily and look down her nose at her - but Walburga Black was right. Millicent was a mother. She of all people could understand. 

  
"I'm sorry" said Bagnold with a sincere look. 

  
"It is not your _sympathy_ I require" 

  
Had Walburga's attention not been keenly fixed on Bagnold, she might have noticed Crouch's slight sneer at her words. 

  
"It is the chance to nurse my child through his final days - and allow myself to find peace and closure" 

  
There was a silent pause in the conversation which was finally broken after a few moments by Arcturus. 

  
"This will all need to be handled with the utmost discretion, of course" he said with a knowing arch of his grey eyebrows. "I'm sure none of us here would want word of this getting out into the Prophet"

  
The patriarch seemed to be rather jumping the gun a little - the Minister had given no indication yet as to which way her decision would go on the matter. 

  
"You might recall that I am currently in the process of finalising a donation towards the new Curses wing of St. Mungo's - I should hate for word of this whole ghastly business regarding my grandson to, shall we say, _tarnish_ the effect of the gesture. You understand, of course" 

  
He puffed out his chest, his silver Order of Merlin glinting in the candlelight.

  
Millicent's eyes flickered knowingly from the award to Arcturus's iron gaze. 

  
"Of course" she agreed. "I quite understand" 

  
The slightest upward curve of Arcturus's mouth was discreet, but nevertheless, noticeable. 

  
Bagnold cleared her throat, sitting up straight in her seat, her hands clasped on the desk top. 

  
"I will grant your request-" 

  
Walburga felt an explosion of butterflies soar within her - quickly and carefully smothered, leaving not a trace of outward reaction. 

  
" _What?!_ " 

  
Crouch's shocked outburst was quickly drowned out by the Minister's continued words. 

  
"-subject to several conditions, naturally" 

  
She took out her wand again, tapping at her bottom-most desk drawer. 

  
A sheet of parchment and a jet-black quill with a golden nib flew out, alongside a bottle of peculiar-looking burgundy ink. The items laid themselves out on the desk top before the Minister, the quill nib loaded with ink and poised in mid-air above the parchment, awaiting further command. 

  
Crouch, who's face had turned an almost identical shade to the ink, stood in furious silence, his fists clenched tight at his sides. 

  
"As you say, Arcturus, we would both prefer that this issue be handled with the utmost discretion" Millicent began, giving a nod to the quill floating in front of her. The feather pen dropped to the parchment and began to write. "Therefore, I forbid any witch or wizard here present at this moment to speak of this matter to any other witch or wizard, without my prior express permission"

  
Walburga eyed the scribbling quill suspiciously, a look noticed by the Minister. 

  
"This is a conditional release order, Mrs Black" she explained. "Not quite as heavy as an Unbreakable Vow but a binding magical contract, nonetheless. Should it come to my attention that the terms of this agreement have been breached, the agreed upon penalty amount will be automatically taken from your Gringotts vault and deposited into the appropriate Ministry account-" 

  
I'd be willing to wager that the account in question isn't involved in _charitable donations_ , Walburga couldn't help but think to herself. 

  
"- in this case: I propose the amount of five thousand galleons" 

  
Judging by her lack of surprise at the loud scoff from Arcturus, this was not an amount she had predicted them to be accepting of. 

  
" _Really_ now, Minister, five thousand galleons?" Arcturus asked with a bemused smile. 

  
"What's the matter, Black?" Crouch folded his arms with a sneer. "Not willing to put your money where your mouth is?"

  
"Quite the opposite, Crouch" Arcturus replied sarcastically. "I was merely remarking on the generosity of the Minister. Really now, five thousand galleons" He gave a slight chuckle. "Come now, let us call it _seven_ thousand galleons"

  
His grey eyes gleamed cunningly as he leaned forward in his seat. 

  
"Call it a good will gesture - a show of our commitment" 

  
Bagnold returned Arcturus's smile in equal measure. She leaned back in her seat a laced her fingers together, her elbows on her armrests.

  
"Very well-"

  
She nodded to the quill. It scratched a line through the number "five" and replaced it with a "seven" beside it. 

  
"Seven thousand galleons it is. Now then - I would also request that in addition to this agreement of secrecy, that when the day of your son's death arrives-"

  
Her eyes flickered from Arcturus to rest upon Walburga. 

  
"-that the burial arrangements be handled with the utmost privacy. No public service, no notoriety of burial. It would hardly do to have the funeral of a man believed to be held in Azkaban taking place in the centre of London. I'm sure you would agree."

  
"Quite" Walburga readily agreed, safe in the knowledge that she had absolutely no intention of such a day arriving within her own lifetime. 

  
"You will, of course, be obliged to send word to myself, personally, immediately, once that day arrives"

  
"Naturally"

  
"Very well then" Millicent turned her attention back to the quill, which finalised its writing with a final flourish at the end of it's last sentence. "Then if we are all agreed, we can proceed with the signing"

  
Taking the lead, she pulled the parchment towards her, took hold of the levitating quill and signed her name along the pre-prepared line beside her printed name and title. 

  
"Crouch" 

  
Bagnold slid the parchment to one side, holding out the quill to the wizard, his face still an ugly shade of plum, fixing him with a sharp look. 

  
Crouch all but snatched the quill from the Minister, marking the document with his signature as quick as if he expected it to sting him at any moment. He silently held out the quill across the desk to Arcturus to sign next.

  
The patriarch leaned across with a slight groan to take the quill, exchanging scowls with the opposite wizard as he did so. He too signed the document beside his own name and title. 

  
He then passed the parchment and quill to Walburga, who looked down at the document. The blessed piece of parchment that held the key to her son's freedom. She signed her signature beside the printing of her own name - the only one listed with no title. 

  
As she set down the quill, the parchment suddenly began to glow brightly, the magic infused within the words activating upon it's completion. 

  
Millicent took back the still-glowing parchment, placing it carefully inside the black leather folder with the rest of the documents relating to Sirius's case. The golden light leaked out of the edges of the folder as she placed it back inside her desk drawer.

  
"There we have it" she announced. "The agreement is active, and all shall henceforth be accountable to the agreed conditions"

  
She glanced at the wall-mounted clock on the side of the room. 

  
"I will send word to Azkaban shortly to arrange for plans to be put into action. You will not want to waste precious time, of course-"

  
"Of course" Walburga's voice was clipped with a note of impatience. 

  
"-so I will ask for your son to be brought to your house this evening"

  
Walburga's heart soared. Tonight. She would have her son back home tonight. 

  
"Mrs Black?" 

  
Walburga snapped back to attention, unaware that she had not yet answered. 

  
"Yes" she said hurriedly. "That would be... most kind"

  
She forced herself to offer a smile as close to the definition of sweet at she could conjure. 

  
"Thank you, Minister. I am most grateful for this" 

  
Millicent nodded with a restrained smile. 

  
"Yes, well" she cleared her throat. "As you said, as a mother, I appreciate the sanctity of time with one's children. Now then, I must get on with the arrangements. Crouch, would you like to see our guests out?" 

  
The look Bartemius Crouch wore for the duration of the walk across the Minister's office back to the mahogany door assured both Blacks that there was precisely nothing he wouldn't rather do. He exchanged one last glare of dislike with Walburga before slamming the office door shut behind them without so much as a goodbye.

  
"What in Merlin's name do you think you're _playing_ at?" Crouch exploded, whirling round to face the Minister. 

  
"I beg your pardon?" Bagnold asked calmly. She had already taken out a fresh sheet of parchment to begin drafting her letter to Azkaban. She paused, mid-sentence, peering across at the angry wizard, unphased by his outburst. 

  
"You do realise what you've just _done?_ " Crouch marched back across the office to stand in front of the desk, where the two newly-vanished chairs had just been. He leaned forward, his palms pressed to the wood. "You've just handed one of the most dangerous criminals of this century over to his family! And not just any family - the _Blacks_ , to boot!" 

  
Millicent silently finished the second half of her sentence before setting her quill down in its holder and looking up at Crouch.

  
"As entertaining as this little tirade of yours is, Barty, I'm afraid I fail to see what _precisely_ your aim is in it all" 

  
Millicent's eyes had grown cold, devoid of the warmth she had been careful to channel whilst dealing with the soon-to-be-bereaved Mrs Black. 

  
Crouch gave a short laugh and sneered. 

  
"Come now, you don't _seriously_ buy all that poor, tragic Walburga Black tripe, do you? The woman's as cunning as a snake, the whole lot of them are! There's some scheme behind all this, you mark my words. And the second they've got that boy back in their clutches, it'll all come to pass. They've played you for a fool, I tell you"

  
"If you are quite finished?" 

  
Bagnold's tone was as sharp as ice, her words deadly smooth. 

  
Barty Crouch was not a stupid man. Far from it. He knew precisely how far to push the Minister, and he was currently teetering on a cliff edge. He clenched his jaw, biting back the words on the tip of his tongue. 

  
"I am perfectly aware of the Blacks' reputation" Millicent leaned forward, her forearms folded on the desk top, fixing Crouch with a deadly stare. "And I assure you, I have not, as you put it, been _played for a fool_ " 

  
The sting with which she lashed his words back at him set Crouch's hairs on edge. 

  
"You do not think I have my own suspicions regarding their motives in wanting Sirius back?" She tilted her head to one side. 

  
Crouch, smartly elected not to reply. 

  
"Of course I do" Bagnold continued. "But the facts of the matter are heavily against them, whatever their true motives may be. Sirius Black has fading fever. You know as well as I that the diagnosis alone is a death sentence" 

  
Crouch had no suitable answer. He could not argue against the facts. He thought back to when he had discovered the fate of Sirius Black, just a few short hours ago, that very morning. After a three day leave of absence (citing personal matters), he had returned to his desk to find a small pile of letters awaiting him, most of which concerned the young man he'd had locked away without a trial after being caught red-handed (quite literally) at the scene of a most gruesome crime.

  
He had bubbled with rage at the news that his deputy, Marcus Wilson, had seen fit to authorise the rarely-granted privilege of a visit to the relative of an inmate without his permission - let alone to Walburga Black. 

  
And when he had opened the letter summoning him to the Minister of Magic's office for today's accursed meeting, he had laughed. For such a thing could only be a joke. 

  
And yet, here he was. And Millicent Bagnold looked to be anything but in the mood for laughter. She held his gaze for a moment, before silently picking up her quill and resuming her letter-writing.

  
"But- _consider_ , Minister" 

  
Bagnold's gaze jerked up so sharply that Crouch almost flinched. He humbled his tone. 

  
"Suppose other families were to come forward" Crouch reasoned. "You know as well as I how many Death Eaters we have in custody. You can be sure many more of them will follow Black's fate. Is every simpering mother who comes begging at the door to be pandered to? it isn't feasible" 

  
Millicent gave a slight chortle as she set down her quill again.

  
"Really, Barty, you do talk such utter _drivel_ sometimes" 

  
Crouch felt his face flush. 

  
She folded her hands and leaned forward, her chin resting atop her fingers.

  
"There are indeed many of You-Know-Who's supporters in the cells of Azkaban - many of whom, you may care to remember, have already died" She spoke slowly, as thought to a particularly dim child.

"And tell me, Barty, precisely how many relatives have come forward with requests for deathbed visits or compassionate releases?"

  
Crouch gritted his teeth in silence. He could not bring himself to reply.

  
"None" Millicent answered for him. "So I really shouldn't lose sleep over the idea of a swarm of mothers knocking at the door. If they were to come, I expect they would have long-since arrived" 

  
"I hope your faith is not misplaced, Minister" Crouch muttered, pacing restlessly. 

  
"As do I" Bagnold agreed. Now, I suggest you take a moment to compose yourself before you go back to your department, Barty" said Millicent as she began to write once again. "You look quite unwell" 

  
Crouch sniffed, glancing sideways at his reflection in the glass display cabinet. 

  
"And do try to put this business out of your mind, since you clearly find it so taxing" Bagnold's voice was withering. "In a few days, Sirius Black will be dead, and you and I can both put this business behind us"

  
The finality of her words clearly indicated to Barty that this was her final word on the matter, and that he was dismissed. Without a word of goodbye, he turned and headed for the door. 

  
"Oh, and one last thing-"

  
Crouch paused, his palm hovering over the door handle. 

  
"Forgive me" Millicent's voice turned sincere. "I would strongly advise you to ensure that, in future, you do not allow your personal life to interfere with your judgement. We all have ghosts in our pasts, but we cannot allow it to cloud the decisions we make in the present circumstances we find ourselves in"

  
Crouch turned to face the Minister. He felt his cheeks burn red at the indignation of the Minister's obvious reference to the shameful fate of his only son - who, in the eyes of the outside world, at least, had suffered a near-identical fate to the one awaiting Sirius Black.

  
"Do I make myself clear?"

  
The Minister's face was grave, her chestnut eyes emotionless. 

  
Crouch swallowed hard.

  
"Perfectly" 

* * *

Walburga paced back and forth across the length of the drawing room, her stomach fluttering with what felt like a swarm of butterflies. 

Any minute now. Any minute now, the Aurors would arrive in a burst of green flames through her fireplace, delivering her son back to her - back to his home. After so long... 

It was worth having to temporarily lowering the protective wards around their Floo network collection to allow unauthorised arrivals. 

At long last, there was a burst of bright green from the fireplace. 

Walburga whirled around to see the two men, clad in identical black cloaks, their wands brandished - and the unconscious body of her son carelessly slung across the arms of the taller of the two wizards.

A spark of fury ignited when she observed that his wrists and ankles were shackled. She then realised that his limbs were tense, rigid under the influence of an immobilising spell.

"What is the meaning of _this?!_ " she demanded, marching up to the two wizards. 

"Necessary precaution, ma'am" replied the wizard holding Sirius. His voice was flat, unapologetic. "He wouldn't hold still. Started thrashing about something mad when we picked him up. Nearly dropped him first time round" 

A scene played out before Walburga's mind's eye. The dementors. Their scabbed, claw-like arms. Clutching a body in their grip, transporting their soulless victims to their final destination... the graveyard at the base of the tower. 

She felt a stab of pain in her chest. 

He must have been so _panicked_... 

"Where d'you want him, then?" 

The second Auror's voice was just as blunt as the first. 

"Upstairs" said Walburga with a scowl of disapproval at being spoken to so rudely - and in her own home. "Follow me" 

She led the way through the house, past the rows of confused-looking portraits and up the stairs. 

She did not look back - she did not need to in order to appreciate the confused, rather disturbed looks on the visitors' faces as they passed the display of severed house elf heads. 

"In here" 

Walburga held open the door to the spare bedroom she had prepared for Sirius's arrival. She had decided against having him return to his own bedroom just yet, out of worry that the surrounding memories of his childhood things and wall-fixtures that she could not, for the life of her, remove. He would be far more peaceful in the relative neutrality of the Emerald Room - she hoped.

The Auror carrying Sirius all but dumped him onto the bed. It was a good thing his head landed on the pillows, at least, as the two men stood there, dumbly, making no effort to manoeuvre him into a more comfortable position. 

"If you would _kindly_ remove whatever binding spell you have placed on my son?" Walburga prompted, icily. 

The shorter wizard raised his wand, uttering the incantation which released Sirius from the spell's hold. His body relaxed, though still he did not wake. 

"And you can remove _those_ as well, if you please" 

Walburga glowered at the shackles around her son's wrists and ankles. 

The Auror swished his wand and the manacles disappeared instantly. 

"Thank you" Walburga said stiffly. "You may go now" 

Without a word of goodbye, the Aurors turned to leave. 

"Kreacher!" 

Walburga's shrill cry made the two wizards flinch. And when the house elf appeared before them in a puff of smoke with a loud CRACK, they jumped back with a yelp. 

"Kindly escort these two wizards back to the drawing room fireplace" Walburga commanded the sneering elf. "And then return to me"

"At once, Mistress" Kreacher said with a bow. "Follow Kreacher, gentlemen..." 

Once the wizards were safely on the staircase and out of earshot, Walburga quickly busied herself with examining Sirius properly. 

His face was as sunken with malnutrition as she remembered, though in the vastly improved lighting, he did not seem quite as sallow as he had in the cell. 

Walburga ran her fingers carefully down his arms, partially checking for abnormalities, partially simply taking in the fact that he was really here with her. 

Suddenly, Sirius began to cough. A deep, hacking fit, not unlike the one he had suffered during her visit. 

Walburga did not hesitate, reaching out to stroke a hand down the side of his burning cheek. 

"It's alright" she soothed in a whispered voice. "It's alright, now. You're home. And I'm going to help you"

At last, he began to calm, his raspy breath evening, his drawn face relaxing. 

"Rest, now" Walburga murmured as she stroked his hair, noting that it would need a thorough wash and cut as soon as possible. "All will be well"

She could tell herself that the easing of his coughing was down to her whispered reassurances, but reason reminded her that it was more likely simply the fit naturally subsiding. 

But then, Walburga Black was not one to make a habit of listening to reason.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With her son back in her grasp at long last, Walburga quickly sets to work bringing him back from the edge of death...

**9th March 1984**

With a loud _CRACK_ , Kreacher appeared once more at Walburga’s side, having rid the house of its unwanted guests as ordered. 

The house elf’s beady little eyes peered curiously at the sight of Sirius, the accused blood traitor whom his mistress had so loudly (and tearfully) declared was no longer worthy of the name of Black all those years ago, and who’s name had been forbidden to be spoken in this house ever since.

And now, here he was - painfully thin, riddled with sickness and barely-recognisable with his prison rags and unkempt hair, but here nonetheless. 

His mistress was staring down at the boy so intensely, her hand stroking over his matted hair in a manner that one might call… tender.

It was all so very strange to Kreacher. 

Nevertheless, it was not his place to question, only to obey. 

“I have a list of supplies I require you to collect for me,” said Walburga, without turning to look at him. She held out a slip of parchment to the house elf. 

“Of course, Mistress” Kreacher took the parchment with a humble bow. He peered eagerly down at the list and his eyes widened with uncertainty at the items written in his mistress’s elegant hand. These were not the usual ingredients he was often sent to fetch from the supply shop in Diagon Alley. _Surely_ no shop on the Alley would stock-

“There is a small shop in the village of Lower Upney, in Devon,” Walburga explained, her eyes still fixed on the unconscious boy on the bed. “Ask for Milford Buckleton. He will be able to provide you with everything I require” 

He would never dream of being so bold as to express doubt, or reluctance to carry out the orders his mistress gave him, but privately, Kreacher worried. The items he was required to gather were… controversial, to say the least. A hair’s breadth away from illegal. He, a mere, lowly house elf, would surely not be permitted to acquire such items freely without invoking deep suspicion. 

As though she had read the elf’s mind, Walburga reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a letter. The envelope bore a seal of black wax, stamped with the distinctive Black family crest. 

“Give him this,” she instructed as she handed Kreacher the letter. “He will not deny you your purchases once he knows who has sent you. Now, go at once. I require these items _urgently_ ” 

It was certainly rather late to be sent out on a shopping errand, Kreacher briefly thought to himself. He very much hoped he would not find himself subject to the irritation of a wizard roused from his evening rest by a house elf knocking at his door at such an impertinent hour. But, of course, his mistress’s word was law. And Kreacher, her loyal servant, was bound to obey it.

Giving another low bow, Kreacher disappeared once more, off to fulfil his task. 

Walburga turned her attention back to Sirius, who lay still on the bed, undisturbed by the talk around him. 

She sighed over the state of her son. The grime of his prison rags stood out starkly against the pristine green bed sheets. His hair hung in dull, limp tendrils past his shoulders, littered with tangles and matted clumps, a mere shadow of its former glory. His mother sighed as she ran her fingers through his hair, or at least attempted to. She was itching to get rid of it, to cut it down to a much tidier length. But that was out of the question until he was able to sit up for her to do it properly. It would have to wait. 

A good deal of things would have to wait. For now, more urgent matters needed attending to. 

Walburga quickly set to the task of getting her son properly settled at last. With a firm wave of her wand, she tackled the years of dirt and grime build-up on his skin with an onslaught of cleaning charms. The visible dirt coating his greyish skin disappeared, but still her magic somehow did not leave him looking quite _clean_. After all, even the strongest of cleaning spells was no real replacement for good old-fashioned soap and water, but they would have to make do for now. Sirius was in no fit state to be bathed properly just yet. 

What she could do, however, was spell away the ragged growth of hair masking his face. Her son had been gifted with a face so handsome that it seemed a great shame to allow it to be hidden under an untidy beard, Walburga thought to herself with more than a small hint of pride as she delicately traced her wand across his jaw. 

Several elegant swishes of her wand later and Sirius was at last in a state that allowed Walburga’s nerves to be as at rest as the present situation would allow. He was changed into a pair of pyjamas (Walburga had been only too happy to dispose of his ragged prison garb in a ball of flames) and tucked snugly into bed. Such was the extent of his frailty that his body seemed almost swallowed up into the mass of large, plush pillows and thick, heavy duvet. 

Despite being locked in a state of fevered unconsciousness, however, Sirius appeared visibly more far relaxed now than he had when he’d first arrived home, as though he sensed somehow that he was in a safe place now. He unconsciously turned his head sideways, sinking further into the feather pillow, breathing deeply. Walburga could have almost sworn that his shuddering exhale was a sigh of contentment. 

Satisfied, Walburga then gave the bedside table a single, silent tap with her wand, and in the blink of an eye, the empty space was filled with the heavy wooden storage box in which she stored most of her collection of completed potions. Some purchased ready-made, but most of them her own home-brewed remedies. 

Walburga had always put far greater trust in the effectiveness of her own potions rather than those shop-bought potions brewed by witches and wizards of unknown quality. How could she trust that the potions she had spent good gold on would truly do what their labels claimed when she had not overseen the crucial, intricate steps of the brewing process herself? As an experienced and talented potioneer herself, Walburga was well-aware of the many potential hazards which could be caused by even the minutest of errors, and so had formed a long-ago habit of brewing the majority of the potions she required herself.

And, in any case, she often found that the process of potion-brewing could often be rather relaxing.

Which was precisely why she had spent most of the afternoon since her return from the Ministry cooped up in the cellar room which served as her personal workspace, preparing a powerful nutrition tonic which would play a vital role in rebuilding the strength Sirius so badly needed to fight against the illness trying to claim him. 

Walburga opened the box and pulled out the bottle of bright orange liquid she had finished brewing just a few hours ago. Just one small dose of this potion per day would provide Sirius with all the sustenance his body would require to begin the long process of healing itself. 

Even if he were conscious, Sirius’s painfully thin, malnourished body was in no state to handle any significant amount of food. Alongside the yet-to-be-brewed curative potion, this mighty little elixir meant the difference between life and death for Walburga’s son at this late stage in his illness. 

Walburga poured a small amount of the liquid into a dose phial, its orange hue shining almost gold in the candlelight. She gently tilted back Sirius’s head and slowly poured the potion into his mouth, drop by drop.

Sirius coughed a little as the potion reached the back of his throat, but swallowed it down reflexively. With each swallowed drop of the potion, Walburga felt herself relax just a little more.

She frowned, however, when she saw the bead of sweat trickling its way down his furrowed brow. 

Walburga wordlessly conjured a cold, soaked cloth and began to dab gently at her son’s searing-hot forehead. Sirius winced and unconsciously tried to turn away from the sudden coolness against his burning skin, but Walburga would not be deterred. She gently turned his head back towards her and pressed down the cloth. A moment later, Sirius stilled once more, seeming to relax in relief as the coolness soothed his fever. 

It was barely a drop in the ocean in terms of actual healing value, but at the very least, the physical act of dabbing at her son’s forehead with the cloth provided Walburga with something physical to do whilst she awaited Kreacher’s return with her supplies. It kept her from endlessly taking out her watch to check how long it had been since she had sent the elf off to complete his task. 

Of course, there was almost the minutest of chances that Kreacher would return partially or completely empty handed - the ingredients required for the potion were notoriously hard to come by, not to mention expensive and disapproved of. 

The wizard who owned the shabby little shop, hidden in the depth of the countryside, was the only man that Walburga knew of who was capable of providing such things. Word of him travelled discreetly through hushed, cryptic conversations between trusted companions. How he acquired his wares, Walburga did not know. He was a wizard who asked no questions to the customers who paid handsomely for his items, and was offered no questions in return as to how he came about them in the first place. 

After what felt like an age, Walburga finally gave in to temptation and fished her watch out of her pocket. It was just gone eight o’clock. Kreacher had been gone for barely half an hour. Even if the elf returned this very minute, Walburga knew she would be spending the majority of the night ahead at work in the cellar, slaving over her cauldron in an effort to perfect the potion which, according to the directions outlined in her book, promised to be one which demanded an intensely precise attention to detail. 

As the hour mark ticked closer, Kreacher at last reappeared back at Walburga’s side, his spindly arms wrapped around a large paper parcel. The elf staggered slightly under the weight of his burden after the suddenness of apparating. 

“Did you have any problems?” Walburga asked, taking the parcel from him. 

“Just a little, Mistress,” Kreacher admitted in his low, growling voice. “The wizard was suspicious of Kreacher. He did not trust Mistress’s letter that Kreacher gave him until he had read it four times, though Kreacher tried to tell him his task was very urgent” 

Walburga shook her head with a sigh. Buckleton was a naturally suspicious man - of course, one rather had to be when in a business such as his - but _four times_ to read a letter which bore the crest of the Black family before trusting it… There was once a time when fingers would _tremble_ whilst opening an envelope bearing such a seal. 

“But he provided everything on my list?” Walburga arched an eyebrow down at the elf. 

Kreacher nodded eagerly. 

“Oh yes, Mistress, everything. Kreacher made sure nothing was missed” 

“Good”

Walburga glanced back round at Sirius. He was resting peacefully, now. The cold cloth seemed to have eased the worst of his fever, temporarily at least.

“You will stay here tonight and watch over him,” Walburga instructed Kreacher, who’s bat-like ears twitched curiously at the order given to him. 

Walburga fixed the elf with a sharp look.

“From this moment on, he is not to be left alone for a moment. You will remain at his side, whenever I am unable to be, and you will alert me of any changes to his condition _immediately_. Is that understood?” 

Kreacher’s half a second of hesitation before muttering his eagerly obedient reply did not go unnoticed by his eagle-eyed mistress. 

Walburga was perfectly aware of the dislike which her house elf bore towards her firstborn. The tinge of distaste in the way Kreacher looked at him had always been evident, from the first time that Sirius had discovered the delight to be found in tugging on the house elf’s ears as a toddler. But for all he disliked Sirius, Kreacher worshipped the ground his mother walked on. And it was this fact which assured Walburga that the house elf would rather throw himself into a blazing fireplace than allow himself to be neglectful in his care of her son. 

Clutching the parcel tightly in her hands, Walburga reluctantly tore herself away from her son’s bedside and left the room, heading down to the cellar for a long night of potioneering ahead. 

Down in the cellar, having set her cauldron to heating up over the fire, Walburga carefully unwrapped the parcel and spread out the contents across her workbench. 

Some of the items were not particularly interesting; lacewing flies, eye of newt, ground black beetles. All relatively normal staples of a potioneer’s stores of which she happened to have run low. 

However, there were also ingredients required which were far darker in origin. Items which few potioneers were willing to handle, let alone entertain using in their creations. Items judged too “unethical” for medicinal use. 

The thought made Walburga scoff. The very idea that anything capable of preserving human life could be deemed “inappropriate”. As far as she was concerned, the soft-hearted healers of St. Mungo’s had the blood of the victims of their cowardice in their hands. 

But her son would not be one of them. Walburga Black was made of sterner stuff. 

She picked up a jar, small enough to fit snugly in the palm of her hand. As the glass caught the light, the powdered contents within glinted a mysterious shade of dull gold.

The ground horn of a newborn unicorn foal - slain before it had seen its first moon. Though the killing of a unicorn was not illegal, there were very few wizards willing to attempt such an abhorrent act. Technically legal it may be, but was there a moral crime more grievous than the slaughter of a creature so pure and innocent, that had barely lived a day? 

Satisfied with the quality of the golden powder, Walburga placed the jar back down, turning next to the small, black velvet pouch beside it. 

She carefully opened the drawstring of the pouch and shook out a small handful of glittering blue-green flecks into her palm - mermaid scales. Walburga carefully peered at each of them in turn, ensuring they were pure of colour and glittering brightly. Only the scales plucked from a live specimen would shine in such a way - scales from a deceased creature would dull to an iron-grey - utterly useless to a potioneer.

Beasts by choice they may be, but as sentient, human-like beings - capable of thought and language, if not manners - the mutilation of a mermaid in the interests of potion-making was most certainly a crime for which one could expect serious consequences, if discovered by the Ministry. 

One by one, Walburga matched each of her ingredients, some less savoury than others, to the list in her potion book. The potion itself would take many hours to brew and required intense concentration throughout. This was no concoction which could be left to simmer under the guard of a bewitched, self-stirring spoon. Walburga would need to be at her cauldron’s side every step of the way. There would be no time to sleep tonight, but Walburga knew that, even if she tried, there was no way she would not be able to catch a single wink until the first dose of the potion had been successfully administered to her ailing son.

She carefully rolled up the sleeves of her gown, tapped her wand onto the rim of the cauldron to simmer the bubbling water within, and began her work. 

* * *

**10th March 1984**

As the long night finally drew to a close and morning approached, Walburga ladled the last of the thick, jet-black potion into the tall, glass bottle. The mixture dripped slowly, the tar-like liquid omitting a faint sizzling sound with a loud hiss each time another drop fell.

The brewing process had been as slow and as meticulously detailed as Walburga had anticipated. There had been several points throughout the night in which she had found herself gripped by a sense of alarm as she second-guessed a swish of her wand or a stir of her cauldron. Not since her first year of potions lessons at Hogwarts had she had so little faith in her potion-making, such was the complexity of the recipe. But, at long last, the potion was ready. 

Walburga stoppered the potion bottle at long last and yawned deeply. It had certainly been a long night. Her eyes felt heavy and her feet ached from the many hours spent standing over her cauldron, constantly stirring the mixture which, the book threatened, would turn to stone and be rendered completely useless if the manual stirring lost its precise rhythm or ceased a moment too early. 

It was the hardest and most laborious potion she had ever brewed. 

But it was the potion which promised to save her son. And for that, she would gladly brew it all over again in a heartbeat.

Walburga squinted in the bright, golden light of the sunrise pouring through the front windows of Grimmauld Place as she ascended through the house. With Kreacher confined to Sirius’s bedside in her absence, there had been no one to draw the curtains the night before. It had been many years since Walburga had seen the walls of her house bathed in the golden sunlight of the early morning. The warm, hopeful glow seemed almost wrong against the dark, austere grandeur of Number Twelve. 

As she walked along the hallway towards the Emerald Room, a muffled coughing sound began to reach Walburga’s ears, which grew louder the further she walked. She marched quickly to the end of the hallway and threw open the door of the bedroom. 

“ _What_ is this?!” she demanded angrily, enraged by the sight of a panicked Kreacher attempting to hold Sirius still as the force of his coughing fit caused his body to lurch against the bed, his face screwed up in discomfort. 

“Kreacher cannot make him stop! Kreacher has tried, Mistress! He has!” the elf prattled madly, his eyes widening fearfully as his mistress approached. 

“Get out of the way” Walburga snapped. She seized hold of the elf by the back of his ragged cloth and hurled him viciously away from the bed. He landed hard against the wall with a hard _thump_. 

Walburga sat down on the side of the bed and leaned over Sirius to examine him. He was caught in the grip of another violent, hacking coughing fit, his furrowed brow glistening with sweat. The sound of his gasping as he painfully struggled to rake in each breath filled his mother with panic. He sounded far worse than he had done last night. His forehead burned viciously with a fever which no cold cloth would be able to calm and the grey pallor of his face had blanched to a deathly pale. He was white as a sheet. The illness was tightening its vice-like grip on him. Left untreated, there surely couldn’t be more than a mere few hours before the fading fever at last claimed his life completely. 

There was not a moment left to lose. 

Walburga quickly uncorked the potion bottle and conjured a minute dosing phial. She measured out a pea-sized drop of the potion and held it close to her ear to ensure the treacle-like liquid was still sizzling faintly - the vital assurance that the potion was still live and effective. 

Taking a deep breath she leaned in close to her son and carefully pried open his mouth to deposit the single drop of potion onto the back of his tongue.

Walburga held her breath as she watched the jet-black drop dissolve with a loud hissing noise. This was the moment which would decide whether she had been successful or not. If she had successfully brewed the potion which promised a cure for all ills, Sirius should calm almost immediately. If she had been unsuccessful- 

She gripped a fistful of her skirts tight in her hands. She couldn’t entertain such thoughts. 

A moment seemed to drag by for an eternity. But, at long last, Sirius’s coughing began to subside. His held his breath for several seconds and Walburga felt her heart skip a beat as she feared the worst. 

But then, he exhaled. A deep, clear, relieving exhale. His whole body relaxed, sinking back into the bedding.

The potion had done its work. 

It was all Walburga could do to stop herself from collapsing under the weight of her own relief. She had done it. She had successfully brewed the potion that had promised a cure for the incurable, and it was working. It was not an instant cure - Sirius was merely taking the first step on the long path to recovery - but it was a start. 

“Kreacher” 

The wretched house elf silently uncurled himself from where he had huddled himself in a ball against the wall where he had landed after being hurled across the room. He clambered to his feet and meekly padded over to stand beside Walburga.

“Why was I not _informed_ of the deterioration of my son’s condition?” 

Walburga’s voice was dangerously calm. 

“Mistress…” Kreacher whimpered, practically bent double in submission, his eyes fixed to the ground. “Kreacher-”

“After I _specifically_ ordered that I should be told of any change in his condition _immediately?_ ” 

The elf buckled under the weight of the displeasure in his mistress’s tone. He collapsed to the floor, throwing himself at her feet in a plea for forgiveness. 

“Kreacher is sorry, Mistress” he wept pathetically. “Kreacher does not wish to disobey, never! Kreacher would rather die than disobey-”

The elf crawled closer to Walburga’s feet with his arms outstretched, desperate to clutch onto her beggingly. 

Walburga gave him a swift kick with the toe of her boot, sending him shooting across the floor, landing several feet away from her with a yelp of pain. 

“Then you may as well slit your own throat now, elf” she snapped, coldly. “You _have_ disobeyed me. Nevertheless, I shan’t be too harsh. Twenty lashes”

Kreacher whimpered at Walburga’s words. His ears drooped miserably at the thought of the sting of the whip with which he would have to lay into his own back as punishment for his misdeed - however well-intended it had been. 

“Mistress…” Kreacher whimpered, shakily pulling himself up to his knees with his head bowed. “Kreacher did not inform you of the blood tr- of Master Sirius’s condition because he knew the potion Mistress was brewing was very delicate. Kreacher did not want the potion to be ruined. Kreacher knows that the potion is Master Sirius’s only hope…” 

Walburga clenched her jaw in irritation as the elf’s reasoning ran through her mind. As frustrating as it was to admit, the pathetic little cretin was correct. Had he summoned Walburga to inspect Sirius’s worsening cough, it would have meant her being torn away from her cauldron at the most vital final stage of the potion’s brewing. The cure would indeed have been ruined, with no time, nor ingredients, to make another. The elf had actively disobeyed his mistress’s command - and preserved Sirius’s last hope of life in the process.

She paused, gathering her thoughts.  
  
“You will go about your daily chores as usual” said Walburga, calmly, her eyes fixed on her now peacefully-resting son. “You will return to me immediately when I call, and you will remain in this room every night from now on to watch over my son”

“Yes, Mistress” Kreacher mumbled humbly in reply, bowing his head so low that his long nose almost brushed the ground. 

“He requires a single drop of this potion every hour” Walburga gestured to the bottle of black liquid on the bedside table before fixing the elf with a gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “And from now on, any change, no matter how slight, will be reported to me immediately. Do I make myself clear?”

The house elf’s eyes widened in panic. 

“Yes, Mistress, perfectly clear” he replied hurriedly with a frantic nod. “Immediately. No delays” 

“Good,” said Walburga, turning her attention back to Sirius. “Now, go”

Kreacher got to his feet and padded across the room to the door, hunched over miserably. 

“Oh, and Kreacher-”

The elf’s ears perked up as he turned in the doorway to look back at his mistress, her attention still fixed firmly on her son. He could see the clench in her jaw, the tell-tale sign he had come to recognise as one of reluctant second-thought.

“ _Ten_ lashes” Walburga added, simply. 

“Yes, Mistress” came the house elf’s meek reply as he shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

* * *

**16th March 1984**

  
In the days that followed, Walburga’s time was entirely devoted to caring for Sirius as he recovered. The potion was slowly working its magic - every day his coughing fits grew scarcer and less intense, his fever submitted to being cooled and took longer to flare back up again, and his whitewashed complexion began to deepen to a healthier hue. 

Walburga was at his side every minute of the day, nursing him devotedly, and reluctantly leaving him only at night for a few hours’ sleep, leaving him under Kreacher’s guard, before returning to take up her position again in the morning. 

The elf spent each night after his usual long day of chores curled up asleep on the floor of the Emerald Room beside the bed, flinching in discomfort each time he unconsciously tried to roll over onto his back which still throbbed with lingering pain from his whipping. 

On the night of the seventh day of Sirius’s recovery, Walburga sat at his bedside, as she did every evening, writing her daily letter to Arcturus updating him on his grandson’s progress.

The Black patriarch had seen no point in physical visits to Grimmauld Place over the past week - what would be the point when Sirius remained unconscious, whilst there were matters which required his attention from Noire House?  
  
And after all, the nursing of invalids was women’s work. Hardly his domain. The daily progress reports he received from his daughter-in-law, assuring him that his grandson was on the mend, would suffice until there was _real_ need for his presence. 

Walburga wrote carefully, her parchment sheet resting atop a book in her lap for stability, her ink pot floating beside her. It would be far more practical and comfortable to write at her desk, of course, but that would require her to leave Sirius’s side. Something she was devoted to avoiding as much as possible.

She paused mid-sentence and looked up as Sirius let out a slight moan. His head tossed against the pillow and he shifted restlessly under the covers. His brow furrowed in confused distress, his twitching eyes becoming dangerously close to opening. He was beginning to wake. 

Walburga quickly placed her quill back into the holder of the floating inkpot and set aside her letter. She reached for one of the several potion bottles now littering the bedside table - dreamless sleeping draught. 

She quickly measured out a minute dose of the potion into a dose phial, the pale, lavender liquid glimmering faintly as it slid down the glass. 

Walburga stilled Sirius’s tossing head in her grip and gently tipped the few drops of the potion into his mouth. 

“It’s alright,” she murmured softly when he coughed a little as the potion went down. “Just swallow” 

In a matter of seconds, Sirius relaxed once more, the potion’s magic pulling him back down into the oblivion of sleep. He breathed a deep sigh, with only a very slight rasp in his breath giving any indication of the illness which had ravaged him a few short days ago. 

Walburga’s hand lingered on Sirius’s face, stroking his gaunt cheek as she observed him thoughtfully. He was so peaceful, now. But as her mind wandered back to the awful state she had found him several days ago, the memory sent a shiver down her spine.

On Sirius’s third night at home, Walburga had been roused just after midnight by a panicked Kreacher, come to alert her that Sirius was caught in the grip of a terrible nightmare and would not calm down. Walburga had burst in to find her son tossing and turning in bed, tangling himself in the covers. He was shaking violently and calling out in a delirious, terrified tone, almost sobbing in distress. He seemed not quite conscious nor entirely asleep - caught somewhere in the middle which rendered him unreachable by reason or comfort. His jumbled words made little sense, but amongst the few Walburga could pick out were “cold”, “dementors” and “sorry”. She had needed no further explanation as to the meaning behind these vague mumblings.

Cursing herself for not having predicted this occurrence sooner, Walburga swiftly summoned a bottle of dreamless sleeping draught from her stores and administered a strong dose to her distressed son. The change in Sirius was almost instant. His thrashing ceased, his panting calmed and his shouts were silenced. He was peaceful once more, the potion blocking all memory of the horrors of Azkaban from his thoughts.

From then on, Walburga had kept him regularly dosed with the dreamless sleeping draught, ensuring he was kept, as much as possible, locked in a deep, peaceful slumber which allowed his body to heal undisturbed and keep his mind at rest.

But this first, crucial phase of her son’s recovery was coming to an end. The worst of the fading fever was gone, fought off by the miracle in a bottle that was the jet-black potion. 

With the aid of his mother’s potions, both medicinal and nutritional, Sirius had at last reached a point where he had regained enough strength for his enforced slumber to no longer be entirely necessary. 

Against all odds, he was well on his way to a complete recovery and the time had come to consider allowing him to awaken at last.

The thought made Walburga’s heart leap with victorious joy - and made her stomach turn with nervous anticipation. 

In truth, there was no way of knowing how Sirius would react to his present situation when he finally awoke. 

When she thought back to what she had seen of Azkaban, the nightmarish presence of the dementors and the broken state Sirius had been reduced to, Walburga struggled to see how her son could possibly emerge from the fog of his ordeal unchanged. He would be fragile, in need of support and rebuilding. 

But what if this wasn’t the case? Suppose Sirius did in fact awaken unchanged by his time away from home? After all, her boy had always been strong and famously stubborn in equal measure. It would be just like him to remain defiantly unchanged by the effects of a prison which drove many a hardened criminal to an early grave.

Snapshots of the many blazing rows she had shared with her wild, rebellious firstborn during his turbulent teenage years rolled through Walburga’s mind, playing over constantly like a record on a loop. Was she really to go through all that again? After all this time?

A great deal had changed - within the world and the family - since the day Sirius had slipped out of his mother’s grasp, a teenage runaway fleeing through his bedroom window in the dead of night. But the key question was - had _Sirius_ changed? 

It was only a matter of time before she would find out.

“Kreacher!” 

The house elf appeared at her side instantly. 

“You called, Mistress?” he announced his arrival with a low bow. 

“I am going to post this letter,” Walburga folded her parchment in half, vanishing her writing utensils with a flick of her wand. She rubbed at her temple wearily. The long hours keeping vigil at her son’s bedside were surprisingly tiring. “And then I will turn in for the night. You will remain here”

“Of course, Mistress” replied the elf. “Kreacher will remain” 

As she did, without fail, every time the moment came for her to leave her son for the night, Walburga gave Sirius one last longing look in silent farewell. 

How utterly ridiculous you’re being, was the phrase she scolded herself with silently each night. You’ll be gone for merely a few hours and he will remain fast asleep, thanks to the sleeping draught. He’s hardly likely to escape through the window this time. 

As she made her way downstairs to deliver the letter to her ever-reluctant owl, Walburga couldn’t help but smirk as she considered that this reasoning was indeed true - but not least because she had taken care to magically reinforce the locks on the windows. 

* * *

**17th March 1984**

Warm. That was the first thought that came to Sirius’s mind as it began to drift out of its slumber. 

Or was it? Surely he must still be dreaming. Nothing was ever _warm_ in Azkaban. The word didn’t exist here. There was no need for such a word in a place where it did not have meaning. _Warm_ was a sensation which only ever existed briefly in unconscious imaginings, able to be savoured for a few precious moments before the ever-hungry dementors swooped in to claim it for their own.

Sirius focused hard on the warmth enveloping him, trying to savour it as much as possible. Such a feeling surely wouldn’t last long. Any moment now it would be cruelly snatched away from him. 

Any moment now… 

The next thing Sirius realised was that the stone floor of his cell felt unusually comfortable today. It was… _soft_. Another word which had no place in this harsh world. The dementors would be along in a minute to snatch that away from him, too. 

They certainly were taking their time about it.

Before he realised what he was doing, Sirius opened his eyes. The light that greeted him was dim, but compared to the near-constant darkness which he was used to, it felt painfully bright. Why was his cell so bright? 

The strangeness of it all began to clear the fog clouding Sirius’s thoughts. What was this dream? It certainly wasn’t one he’d had before, as far as he could remember, at least. 

He blinked hard in the light and his blurred vision began to focus. He could make out the candles bathing the room in their glow. The darkness peeking through the gap in the window curtains told him it was the middle of the night. What a strangely precise time to set a scene.

The room he was in resembled no cell that he recognised. The walls were a deep, forest green, expensively-papered. The roaring fireplace on the opposite wall was a gaudy, golden piece of work, and the bed- 

He was laying in a bed. A finely-carved four-poster. It was the final piece of the puzzle. This was the Emerald Room, one of the several guest bedrooms of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. 

A sudden panic gripped Sirius. He knew this dream. He’d had versions of it played through his mind countless times before - the dementors pulling him roughly back to his family’s house, his childhood home, to be made to relive every awful minute of his time here all over again. He’d never been brought back to this particular room before, however. He couldn’t even recall which particular memory it was associated with. But it was no doubt going to be unpleasant, and he wanted no part in it. 

He needed to snap out of it. To wake up. To escape.

Sirius tossed his head, blinked his eyes hard, clenched his fists, did everything possible to try and force himself awake and out of this dream, but it just wouldn’t fade. The walls remained richly green, the fire continued the blaze, the bed felt only softer and warmer. How was it possible that all this could feel so _real?_

He tried to sit up, only to find that the heavy duvet covering him was tucked into the bed so firmly that it had him practically strapped down. A dull, aching pain shot through his arms as he forced himself free of the covers and a rush of dizziness washed over him as he hauled himself up against the headboard.

All this physical feeling, these very real sensations, and _still_ he would not wake… 

Sirius could feel the panic continuing to build inside him. He was clearly far deeper into the dream than he ever had been before. He needed to get out, to escape, to _wake up._ Fighting against the aching of his tired limbs, he pushed the bedclothes away from him and turned, far too quickly for his dizzy head, to get out of the bed. 

No sooner had his feet touched the rich carpet (how long had it been since he’d even thought of the concept of a floor that was not stone?) than he had stumbled forward on his shaking legs - and tripped over the house elf who lay curled up on the floor, asleep beside the bed.

Sirius’s yelp as he fell mingled with the screech of the startled elf as he was landed on. The startled wizard quickly scrambled to his feet and backed away, clutching onto the bedpost for support. 

Kreacher.

Sirius knew that scowling face all too well from many a vision, always sneering up at him with utter shame and disgust. Kreacher’s presence here was nothing new. What was new, however, was the fact that the little cretin didn’t immediately launch into his usual spiel about what a disgraceful blood traitor he was.

“Master Sirius is awake!” Kreacher cried in alarm as he scrambled to his feet. “Mistress!” 

Sirius’s stomach turned with dread at the elf’s call. Of course. He should have known that it would be only a matter of time before _she_ appeared in this vision. She always did, eventually.

Sirius suddenly felt a tug on his trouser leg and looked down to see Kreacher pulling at his leg, attempting to tug him back towards the bed. 

“Master Sirius must go back to bed” the elf growled determinedly. “The mistress will not like him being up yet” 

Sirius flinched and tried to pull away from the unpleasant feeling of the elf’s bony little fingers clutching at him. The dementors truly had gone to town on him this time. Every sensation felt startlingly real, right down to the pain slowly building in his chest the harder he breathed. 

“Get off me!” Sirius croaked, his voice hoarse from lack of use. He kicked his leg to try and dislodge the house elf’s grip on him, still shakily clutching onto the bedpost for support.

“Master Sirius must _go back to bed!_ ” Kreacher repeated impatiently, clinging determinedly onto his charge’s leg.

The elf threw back his head and let out another loud call for his mistress, causing Sirius another jolt of unease in the process. He needed to wake up. He needed this all to be over before she arrived, with her usual vicious shrieks and shouts. 

He had clearly spent far too long in human form if the dementors were able to infiltrate his mind with such vivid, realistic visions. He desperately tried to reach for Padfoot, to find the energy to transform, but he just couldn’t manage it. Perhaps he was too dizzy, too lacking in energy, or just too deep in the dream. Whatever the reason, Padfoot just would not come to him. 

“Wake up, come on, wake up…” Sirius muttered to himself urgently. If Padfoot, his main shield from the dementors, would not help him, then he was truly set on a dangerous course. 

“ _Wake up!_ ” Sirius shouted to himself in desperate frustration, giving his leg another hard kick. 

At last, Kreacher’s grip faltered, and the force of Sirius’s kick sent him hurtling through the air, landing with a thump as his head smacked against the wall. 

“Filthy blood traitor!” Kreacher shrieked with a scowl as he rubbed the sore spot on his head.

“ _What_ is going on in here?!”

Both Sirius and Kreacher froze, their heads turning to the doorway to face Walburga. 

Sirius felt himself turn ice cold as he laid eyes on his mother. There she stood with her hands on her hips and a face like thunder, a little older than she usually appeared in these dreams, but just as furious, nevertheless. 

She was surely the only woman in the world capable of looking imposing in a dressing gown thrown over a nightdress. 

“Mistress!” Kreacher cried, taking advantage of Sirius’s stunned silence to gain the upper hand of the argument. “Master Sirius will not go back to bed. Kreacher has told him, Mistress, he has! But he-”

“Be _quiet_ , Kreacher” 

The elf was instantly silenced by Walburga’s sharp tone.

“Leave us” she ordered him. “Wait outside” 

Without another word, but still taking the time to shoot another scowl up at Sirius, Kreacher hurried to do as he was bid, closing the door behind him as he left.

Sirius winced as the vision of his mother lifted her sharp, grey gaze to fall upon him. This was it. Any second now she would begin hurling all of her usual insults at him; _“Shame of this house”, “Disgrace to the family” “Blood traitor”_...

“Sirius” 

Her voice was hard, stern, but she did not shout. 

“You’re not real…” Sirius muttered to himself firmly, digging his nails hard into the wood of the bedpost. 

His mother began to approach, slowly crossing the room towards him, her gaze fixated on him. 

“You’re not real… It’s not real, none of it is real” Sirius repeated the words over and over to himself as his mother drew closer, his words becoming more garbled as his panic rose. 

“It is real, Sirius” Walburga said calmly as she neared him. 

She walked slowly, as though approaching a skittish horse which might spook and bolt at any moment. 

“No…” Sirius muttered, shaking his head. “It’s not.. Can’t be…” 

When his mother was a few short steps away, he abandoned the support of the bedpost and stumbled backwards to lean against the wall. His mother continued her walk towards him, unphased. 

When was the shouting going to start? Why were the dementors dragging out their torment so much today? This was precisely why he tried to spend as much time as possible as Padfoot.

Sirius screwed his eyes tightly shut in concentration as he tried to transform into the shelter of his dog form, but again, he failed to change. The effort only seemed to drain him further. 

And now his mother was right in front of him. Her hypnotising gaze held his own in its grip. He couldn’t make himself look away. 

“This _isn’t_ a dream, Sirius,” she said, firmly but calmly. “It’s real” 

“No…” 

Walburga reached out a hand towards him. Sirius tried to back away, but the wall had him trapped, cornered like prey. The hand came up towards his face and gently cupped his cheek. Sirius flinched at the touch. Surely people in dreams couldn’t touch… 

“There. You see?” said Walburga as she stroked her thumb down the side of his face. “I’m real. It’s all real. This isn’t a dream” 

Her words swam round in circles in Sirius’s throbbing head. He tried to absorb them, but they just wouldn’t seem to stick. 

“H-how…?” 

“You’re not in Azkaban anymore,” Walburga explained slowly and precisely, as though trying to reason with a frightened child. Her hand dropped lower to rest on his shoulder. “You’re home” 

“Home…” Sirius repeated, as though saying the word aloud might somehow help to make some sense of this statement which made precisely none whatsoever. How could he possibly be home?

This truly was a masterpiece of manipulation that he hadn’t realised that dementors were even capable of. 

“Dementors-” 

“There are no dementors here, Sirius” Walburga’s voice hardened at the mention of those most foul of creatures. “I’ve told you, you are _home_ now”

At last, Sirius’s eyes broke away from the hold his mother’s gaze had on him. He stared down at the carpet, breathing deeply, trying to make sense of the words swimming round his head, of the concept that he truly was awake, and that this could somehow be the real Grimmauld Place. 

Walburga looked her son up and down, taking in the deep confusion etched on his gaunt, tired face. He was hunched slightly as he leaned against the wall for much-needed support. His too-thin legs trembled under the weight of himself. 

“Come now, sit back down” Walburga took hold of him by the arm, gently but firmly leading him forward to sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re in no fit state to be up and about” 

Sirius followed her lead willingly, too stunned to resist. He all but collapsed onto the edge of the mattress, his aching legs throbbing in relief. For the first time since awakening in this strange new reality, he noticed the state of himself properly. He was thin. Far too thin. He had never noticed himself wasting away in Azkaban - there was no room for such careless thoughts there. All his concentration went on keeping the dementors at bay. But now, free from their influence, he realised just how skeletal he had become over the last-

“What… What year is it?” Sirius asked dazed. If he weren’t still quite so stunned, he might have laughed at the utter absurdity of such a question, perhaps joked about how many drinks it would take before one managed to lose track of what year it was. 

“It’s March,” said Walburga, gently, sitting down beside him. “1984” 

Three years, Sirius worked out in his head. Three years since he had been imprisoned. All those endless, identical hours which bled into days, into weeks, staring at the same four walls, chanting the same words in his mind just to try and hold onto his sanity. 

Had it really only been three years? 

His head swam with so many questions. But one, particularly persistent, managed to fight its way to the forefront of his mind. 

“How am I here?” Sirius asked. His voice, calmer now, was barely above a whisper. His chest ached from the effort of breathing - he seemed to have used up far too much energy in his earlier panic. 

There was a moment’s pause before his mother replied.

“I managed to... secure your freedom,” said Walburga. Her vague answer left much to be desired by the way of detail, but the concept alone of his _mother_ , of all people, getting him out of Azkaban was hard enough for him to comprehend. 

It made no sense. Absolutely none. Sirius hadn’t laid eyes on his mother since he was sixteen, the night he had run away from home. He could recall, in grisly, accurate detail, the almighty row which they had fought between them. He had been forced to relive it enough times. The walls of Number Twelve were much used to being shaken by the shouting matches between the mother and her eldest son, but none as loud nor as harsh as this one. 

_“You are an absolute disgrace!”_ Walburga had seethed at him, her face beet-red with rage, her hand trembling from the force with which she gripped her wand. _“A shame on this family, a shame on my blood. I cannot stand to look at you a moment longer!”_

Those were the very last words Sirius had heard from his mother, before he had turned away and stormed up to his bedroom, his final decision made. If his mother could no longer stand the sight of him, then he would kindly relieve her of having to look at him ever again.

So why was it, Sirius wondered, that the same woman who had declared him to be so unbearable to look upon, was now staring at him with such intensity that it made him uncomfortable? 

Her hand, he realised suddenly, was still gripped loosely around his forearm.

“Why?” 

His mother was clearly taken aback by his question. She was never a woman to show weakness or doubt outwardly, but sixteen years of living with her had taught Sirius the tell-tale signs which slipped through the facade. She blinked hard, though her steel gaze never faltered, and she took in a small, sharp breath whilst she considered her answer. 

“You were gravely unwell” she eventually said in a cool, collected tone. Unnaturally formal for such a topic. “With fading fever. They told me you were close to death” 

Sirius felt his mother’s fingers around his arm twitch, fighting the instinct to grip tighter. He didn’t have the energy to pull away. 

“They let me visit you” Walburga’s voice was quiet. Her eyes flitted away from him, looking down at the floor. “Of course, you probably don’t remember that, you were far too unwell”

Sirius attempted to search his mind for such a memory. Recalling Azkaban was surprisingly hard, he found. He couldn’t picture the cell in which he’d spent the entirety of the last three years of his life, only recall feelings. He remembered cold, always the cold… And dread. Fear. And… 

The tiniest spark of light, burning small but bright, like a single candle in a distance of a vast darkness which burned brighter the closer he moved towards it.

“Patronus…” he muttered quietly, lost in thought. “It was… warm” 

Walburga’s eyes rose, fixating on Sirius again. The corner of her mouth twitched - the closest thing to a smile she was willing to offer. 

“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “They let me visit you. It was fading fever, that was quite clear to see. And I- well, I happened to know of a… a potential cure” 

Memories of the feelings of sickness flooded Sirius’s mind. It all came rushing back; the fever which burned him, making him feel as if he were roasting in the middle of a storm-tossed Scottish island, the deep ache of his body, every part of him feeling as though it were being pierced by white-hot knives, and the coughing. The endless coughing which hacked at his chest and made each gasp for breath an ordeal. 

He raised a shaking hand to his chest, feeling the dull, lingering ache that reminded him of the illness which had kept a tight grip on him… and from which his mother had managed to wrench him free.

“Why?”

The question slipped out automatically. He was hardly aware he’d even said it aloud until his mother took that tell-tale small, sharp intake of breath.

There was a pause, the tension between them palpable as Sirius’s mother considered how best to answer. 

“Enough questions, now” Walburga eventually replied in a brisk tone. “You’re in no state to have such discussions now. You’ve had quite an ordeal. You need to rest” 

“But I-” 

“No buts” said Walburga firmly as she got to her feet. “Your questions can wait until you are stronger. Besides, it is the middle of the night. You ought to go back to sleep” 

The voice was calm, but tinged with that particular note of threat which Sirius remembered all too well - the voice that assured its recipient that there was no room for argument and that any attempt would not be tolerated. 

“You’re over the worst of your illness but you still need to rest” said Walburga as she gently-but-firmly guided him to lay back down on the bed. 

Feeling both too mentally and physically exhausted to put up the fight he might otherwise have put up out of sheer habit, Sirius allowed his mother to tuck a pillow under his head and cover him again with the duvet. She tucked the edges in tight, something Sirius certainly wouldn’t have tolerated in times gone by. He’d always hated the feeling of being constricted, restrained, and as a child had always made a point of stubbornly kicking the bed covers loose the second they were tucked around him. 

But in this particular moment, the warmth of the bed seeped into his aching body, the soft pillow felt far too heavenly to protest again. There was something rather… comforting, about the firmly-tucked covers. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time, longer than he could remember, even before Azkaban. Security. 

“Here-”

Sirius looked up to see his mother measuring out a few drops of a pale, lavender potion into dose phial. 

“This will help,” said Walburga, noticing the way Sirius’s eyes widened suspiciously at the potion. She sat down beside him on the edge of the bed and lifted the phial to his lips. “Dreamless sleeping draught. Just a few drops, to get you through to the morning”

Too tired to resist, and not entirely wanting to anyway, Sirius compliantly swallowed the potion as it was tipped into his mouth. His eyes immediately began to feel impossibly heavy and he began to feel the rise of the blissful sense of weightlessness which dreamless sleeping draught was known for.

Sirius let out a deep sigh and turned his head to one side, allowing the potion to gently tug him back down to the world of sleep. There was still so much about the world he had found himself in that he did not yet understand, so many questions which remained unanswered. Of course, there was still every chance that he might yet awaken in a few hours’ time and find that he was back in his cell and that this had all been a strange dream after all. But until then, it was a relief to surrender to the urge to sleep.

* * *

  
Walburga gazed down at her sleeping son searchingly. 

Reason had told her many times that the Sirius who awakened would not be the same one she had last spoken to when he was sixteen. She had told herself to be prepared for his likely bewilderment at his current situation. But the experience of dealing with a version of Sirius who was so shaken, so pliant of her will, was disturbing nonetheless. He hadn’t put up the slightest fight as she’d guided him back into bed, nor argued against the sleeping draught or offered some impertinent, sarcastic remark during their entire conversation. 

She didn’t like it. It didn’t seem right, somehow. Merlin only knew how many times she had cursed her son’s wilfulness, his stubborn ways and the temper so distastefully similar to her own. But Sirius without them simply did not seem to be quite _her_ Sirius. 

It was very early days, of course. He’d had a shock, and was still recovering from his ordeal. There was plenty of time yet for him to come out of his shell and seem more like himself. Or, perhaps, her longed-for wish of old had finally been granted and this new, quiet, pliable Sirius was the new version she would have to get used to. 

As the old saying went, one ought to be careful what one wishes for.

A stray, matted lock of dull, black hair fell forward, obscuring the side of Sirius’s face. Walburga reached out to quickly brush it away. Sirius flinched slightly as her fingers brushed against the side of his face. And then, to her surprise, he let out a faint moan and turned his cheek into her hand. 

It was the smallest of gestures, and undoubtedly an unconscious response than an active choice, but it wrenched at Walburga’s heart in a way she was quite unprepared for. She felt the same rush of protective instinct she had felt several days ago, back in Azkaban, when Sirius had relaxed in the protective glow of her patronus. 

It was painful to recall that visit, now. The memory of him, curled up on the cold stone floor in thin, prison rags was too painful to envision now that he was safely under her protection at home. Walburga couldn’t stand to think of how her son had spent three years in that hell. 

“Oh, Sirius…” she whispered with a shuddering sigh. “How did it come to this?”

 _You know full well how it came to this, you silly girl,_ snapped the voice of reason inside Walburga’s mind. _Through his own foolish recklessness._

“But why?” Walburga asked aloud - to herself or to her sleeping son, she wasn’t quite sure. She felt the sting of a tear forming in her eye and furiously brushed it away. “Why did this happen? Why did you do it?”

To her utter shock, Sirius replied. 

“Di’n’ do it…” he mumbled, almost too low to hear. His head nuzzling the pillow muffled his words further as he shifted himself into a more comfortable position. 

“ _What?_ ” Walburga whispered in disbelief, leaning closer to him. 

“Peter…” Sirius mumbled before letting out a wide yawn and pressing his head further into the pillow. “S’him…”

“Who is _Peter?_ ” Walburga hissed urgently, her heart pounding. But it was no good. Sirius did not reply, his mind having sunk too far down into the oblivion of sleep to hear his mother’s anxious voice. 

Walburga resisted the overwhelming urge to shake her son awake and demand a proper explanation for how vague mumblings right this minute. She wanted answers. An explanation. Was this the barely-conscious nonsense mutterings of someone dazed and confused, not to be taken seriously? Or was there perhaps some truth in it? 

Had there been some misunderstanding all along? 

Walburga rose to her feet, stealing her usual, wistful glance back at Sirius as she went. She crossed the room and opened the door to find Kreacher stood right behind it. No doubt the little beast had had his ear pressed to the wood since the moment he was ordered to leave. But there was no time to deal with such pettiness now. 

“Kreacher, stay here” Walburga ordered. “He shouldn’t awaken until the morning. When he does, he is to stay in bed. Summon me if he will not”

“Yes, Mistress” Kreacher nodded eagerly, a little glint in his eye that suggested he should surely love to have to summon her to deal with her wilful firstborn. 

The little beast may harbour impertinent opinions which he was oblivious to the fact that his Mistress was fully aware of, but Walburga knew for certain that the elf could always be trusted to carry out his tasks diligently - out of love, respect, and fear, of her. 

It was that certainty alone which spared him the chopping block. 

She closed the door behind her and turned to march briskly down the corridor. She hurried down through the house to her writing desk, pulling her dressing gown tight around her against the slight chill of the night air. 

It would have been far more sensible, of course, to first dress properly before carrying out her task - after all, Walburga knew perfectly well that the overwhelming potential of her son’s vague words would leave her unlikely to return to sleep tonight - but Walburga was in far too much of a hurry to waste the time.

At her desk, she tapped her wand impatiently on the wood and watched as a fresh sheet of parchment laid itself out for her, her quill dipping itself in the ink and floating before her, ready to be taken up for its task. 

Walburga wrote quickly, fully aware that her handwriting was less precise than she would normally have accepted. The slight shake in her hand was to blame for the several ink blots tainting the parchment. Ordinarily, she would have vanished the slapdash writing and started again, but such was her impatience that she simply excused the letter as good enough for its job.

Signed and sealed, she carried her rushed note through to Vesta’s perch by the front window. The owl was sleeping peacefully and made her displeasure at being woken at such a ridiculous hour quite clear with a defiant peck at Walburga’s hand as she tried to tie the letter to her leg. 

“Enough of that” Walburga snapped at the owl. “This cannot wait until the morning”

With an indignant hoot, the owl was shooed out of the window. Walburga watched her fly away into the night, willing the night ahead to pass quickly. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius is confronted with the realities of his newfound predicament and encounters a not-so-friendly face from his past, who has come to demand some much-needed answers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13/06/20 - Please note that this chapter has undergone some alterations from it's original upload on 6/06/20, due to a canon error on my part. It's just some change in dialogue at one point in the second scene but I thought I'd make it clear in case anyone notices the difference :)

**17th March 1984**

Walburga could scarcely remember a night that had passed slower than this one. The hours since the moment she had watched Vesta fly away into the night sky to deliver her urgent letter had ticked by at a painfully slow rate, each minute seeming to drag by slower than the last.

  
She had known from the moment that Sirius had uttered his half-asleep murmurings alluding to his potential innocence that she would not sleep another wink tonight. Thoughts raced through her mind at a mile a minute, her brain far too charged to possibly consider the thought of rest. As such, Walburga saw little point in remaining in her nightclothes. After a quick return to her bedroom to change into a gown far better-suited to being up and about in, she returned to the Emerald Room to resume her watch over her sleeping son. 

She dismissed Kreacher from his watch duties, noting the only-too-obvious relief on the little creature’s face at being released from his vigil over Sirius. 

“Prepare his breakfast for seven o’clock at the earliest, but keep it warm in case he wakes later than expected” Walburga ordered as she took her usual seat beside the bed, gazing down at her sleeping son. 

“Yes, Mistress” Kreacher replied in his usual, growling voice, bowing low as he shuffled backwards out through the door. 

Walburga felt a tinge of relief as the door clicked shut behind him. The elf may be just that - a mere elf - but even his lowly presence was capable of becoming unwanted company. It was a relief to be left alone with her son once more. 

Things hadn’t quite gone to plan so far, Walburga pondered to herself as she stared down at Sirius’s peaceful, sleeping face. She must have miscalculated the sleeping draught dosage - underestimated just how ready he was to wake up when she’d given him what she’d thought had been just enough to keep him asleep until morning. 

She should have been here, ready and waiting when Sirius awoke for the first time, to supervise his adjustment to his newfound situation properly. That was how it should have been. Not her bursting into the room in the dead of night, still in her nightclothes, to find him stumbling about the room with all the grace of a newborn foal, in a state of panicked delirium. It was a chaotic state of affairs, a far cry from the much more carefully managed awakening she had planned for him. 

But then, Walburga thought to herself drily, Sirius Orion had never been one for following the plans carefully laid out for him by others for his own good. 

  
Walburga reached out a hand to stroke away a stray lock of hair from Sirius’s face, racking her brain for any clue as to who the mysterious “Peter” might be. A school friend, perhaps? He certainly couldn’t be a wizard from any family of the good sort. The name alone told her that - it was far too Muggle for any decent member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight to bestow upon their son. 

  
In any case, Walburga was only too aware of how her son had shunned the peers amongst whom he should have found his friends. The mishap of his Sorting may have added an unfortunate complication, but nevertheless, with his status as heir to the Black name and fortune, not to mention his natural charm, Sirius Orion should have had very little trouble befriending the right people at school, had he seen fit to so much as try. But instead, her son had been content to surround himself with wizards of a far lesser quality; a rag-tag pack of Gryffindor boys whom Walburga had never seen any purpose in troubling herself to know in great detail.  
Of course, she was all-too aware of the Potter boy - the latest offspring of a family so proud to call itself a disgrace to its pureblood heritage. Even now, years later, she could picture him all too clearly in her mind; an unsightly mess of black hair, smirking mischievously, his eyes twinkling behind his round glasses with his arm slung across Sirius’s shoulder as they loped along the station platform towards the crowd of waiting parents. To this day, the memory of the over-familiarity made her insides churn bitterly.

  
There had been other boys, hangers-on, strolling behind them - always behind. Two or three of them? Walburga could scarcely recall. She’d always been too busy trying to keep her face rigid and plain, instead of giving in to the urge to grimace in disgust (and later, bitterness) at the sight of that Potter boy clinging to her son with such aggravating familiarity. 

  
Was it possible that this Peter could have been one of those boys in the background? 

  
Walburga sighed as she checked the time on her watch. It was still the middle of the night, several hours at least before Sirius would awaken. Several more hours of waiting and wondering. Her natural tendency towards impatience urged her to shake her son awake this moment and demand the answers she was owed. But she resisted. He looked so peaceful whilst asleep, in spite of how ill he still looked. Though well on the way to recovery, his pale complexion and tired-looking eyes spoke of just how ill he had been a few short days ago. Walburga shuddered to remember just how close to death her son had come. She had no intention of seeing such a sight again. 

  
Her son needed rest in order to recover. And rest was what she would ensure he had. Whether he liked it or not.

  
The hours crawled by slowly, but even the longest nights must eventually end. And so, at long last, the pale morning sunlight began to flicker through the gaps in the drawn curtains and the faint twittering of birds in the trees outside could be heard, signalling the start of a new day. 

  
As the morning set in, Walburga kept her eyes closely trained on Sirius, searching for any hint that he might awaken. But as six o’clock ticked towards seven and seven towards eight, Sirius didn’t stir. Walburga was sure she had only given him a minute dose of the sleeping draught which surely should have worn off by now. Had she somehow miscalculated yet again? 

  
But then, as she stared at her son’s peacefully sleeping face, there was always the chance that the potion had indeed worn off but Sirius himself elected to keep on sleeping. A good sign. For days now Walburga had been reluctant to allow him to drift in and out of sleep at his body’s own free will, lest he fall victim to the horrific nightmares which had plagued him early on in his recovery, but it seemed that peaceful, unaided sleep was something he had now regained mastery of. 

  
Or not. 

  
With a gasp so sudden that it made his mother jump, Sirius awoke, his eyes shooting open wide with alarm. Clearly some unpleasant sight in his dreams had shocked him out of his slumber.  
As he attempted to sit up, Walburga’s hand was at his shoulder in an instant, gently pushing him back down. 

  
“Good morning, Sirius,” she said plainly, drawing his attention to her. 

  
Sirius’s eyes searched her for a moment. Through their window Walburga could practically see the thoughts running through her son’s mind. He seemed confused and panicked for a moment, but the longer he looked, the more he seemed to relax as the memories of their nighttime encounter came flooding back. 

  
When she felt him relax back against the bed once more, Walburga removed the hand holding him down.

  
“What time is it?” Sirius asked hoarsely as he raised a shaking hand to rub his eyes. 

  
“Almost nine o’clock” 

  
“In the morning?” 

  
What a seemingly absurd question, considering he had just awoken from sleep. Surely it would be obvious to him that it must be the morning? But then, Walburga considered, it had been a long time since Sirius had had any reason to distinguish between times of day. The concept of time meant very little in Azkaban, after all. Night or day, there was always darkness. Only the darkness.

  
“Yes” she replied, pressing her hand to Sirius’s shoulder again as he tried once more to sit up. 

Sirius’s eyes narrowed in slight annoyance at the gesture but he obeyed the silent command and lay still. 

His eyes flitted about the dimly-lit bedroom curiously. 

“I’m not in my own room,” he observed. 

“No” 

“Why not?” 

Walburga considered for a moment, reluctant to speak the honest truth. In telling him that she believed the memories within his old room - with it’s vulgar red-and-gold Gryffindor banners and ghastly Muggle posters - might upset him, she risked drawing his attention to such memories regardless. 

“It is… not quite ready to be slept in” she said, finally.

Sirius gave a slight huff, suggesting he sensed this was not entirely the truth.

“Last night…” he muttered sleepily, his voice unsure. “You said that you’d - got me out…?” 

Walburga swallowed hard. Now was not the time for such questions. Not just yet. Not so soon. 

  
As though she hadn’t heard him at all, she reached forward and pressed her palm to Sirius’s forehead. Sirius frowned at the invasion and gave a feeble jerk of his head in a token attempt to shake her off. 

“Still a little warm,” Walburga remarked. “Still better than yesterday, though” 

“Why did-?”

“Kreacher!” 

Sirius flinched at the sudden sharpness of Walburga’s call. When the house elf appeared beside his mistress, the young man and the elf shared a mutual scowl. 

“Bring Master Sirius’s breakfast,” Walburga ordered as she thwarted her son’s attempt to sit up once more. 

“I’m not-”

“ _Now_ ” 

Kreacher bowed low before disappearing once more after uttering his usual eager “Of course, Mistress” 

“How did you do it?” 

Walburga reached for the potion bottles on the bedside table, ignoring Sirius’s questions once more. 

“You’ll need to take more of your potions before you eat,” she said briskly as she busied herself with setting out the dose phials. “You are recovering well but it will still be a few days before-”

“Mother!” 

Walburga paused, the bottle of black liquid frozen in mid-air in her grasp. She was taken aback by the sound of that word - the name by which she hadn’t been called in years. The name which there had been no one left to call her by. Until now. 

Sirius, taking advantage of his mother’s clearly-stunned state, seized the opportunity to haul himself up against the headboard at last. His arms trembled under his own weight, his elbows seeming perilously close to giving way and sending him collapsing back down, but Walburga forced herself not to intervene. She could only keep him down for so long. 

She slowly placed the potion bottle back down onto the bedside table. 

“Does it really need explaining?” she asked stiffly, in response to his first question. She stared down at her lap, suddenly unable to meet her son’ gaze.“I would have thought it would be clear enough” 

“Considering the last time you saw me, you said you could no longer stand the sight of me, I’d hardly say it’s unreasonable to wonder why you went to the trouble of freeing me from prison” 

There was a clear trace of dark bitterness in Sirius’s words. Walburga’s eyes flitted up to glance at her son. What she found was a hard, accusing stare, made only worse by the pale gauntness of his face. 

“You were gravely ill,” she said. “Ill, filthy and starving in that place. What sort of mother would I be if I’d left you there to die?” 

“The same one you were for sixteen years” 

There it was. A trace of the Sirius his mother better recognised. That natural talent for riling her up, of knowing which exact words to say in order to ignite the spark of anger deep within her that she struggled, and so often failed, to control. His grey eyes flared with the same angry defiance that she recognised from when she had last seen him as a surly teenager. Azkaban had not quelled his natural tendency towards insolence.

Walburga stared hard at her son, breathed deep and slow, and forced herself to be calm. She would not rise to his bait. Now was not the time for arguments. Her son still had far too little strength to waste it on petty arguments.

Luckily, she was spared the task of composing a reply by a loud CRACK as Kreacher reappeared, carrying a steaming bowl of porridge. 

“Would Mistress care for anything herself?” the elf growled affectionately as he handed over the bowl. 

“Not just yet” Walburga replied. “I’ll take breakfast later, downstairs” 

The elf bowed and was gone once more, leaving mother and son alone once more. 

“I don’t like porridge,” said Sirius, eyeing the bowl suspiciously. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course you do” Walburga stirred the mixture with the spoon.

“I know what I do and don’t like” 

“Nonsense. You ate it almost every day when you were a child” 

“I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now” 

“I would have thought-” Walburga set the bowl aside onto the bedside table and shot her son a sharp look. “-that someone facing his first decent meal in three years would be a tad less choosy about the food on offer” 

The spark of defiance in Sirius’s eyes flickered under the weight of his mother’s glare. Walburga felt a small, inner triumph in knowing that one of her sharp looks could unnerve her stubborn eldest son as well today as they had done when he was a boy. 

“You need to take your potions first, at any rate” 

Walburga reached for the bottle of black liquid once more. 

“What potions?” 

Sirius shrank back a little into the pillows, his eyes fixed on the phial as his mother measured out the dose. 

“Medicinal potions” Walburga said briskly. “How did you think I cured your fading fever?”

Sirius was silent for a moment, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his mother. 

“I was under the impression that fading fever was incurable” 

Walburga kept her eyes firmly down at the bottle as she replaced the stopper and set it aside. 

“Or has there been some sort of miracle breakthrough in the last three years?”

Always so full of questions, never one to simply just do as he was told. And yet, Walburga couldn’t bring herself to feel as annoyed with him as she might have done in times gone by.

  
“Suddenly you’ve an interest in potioneering?” Walburga arched an eyebrow at her son. 

“Not really,” Sirius replied, pressing himself further back into the pillows as Walburga leaned towards him with the phial. “Just an interest in how an incurable illness suddenly has a remedial potion” 

“If you’re _that_ keen, once you’re up and about you can read the recipe for yourself in the library. Until then-”

She raised the dose phial towards Sirius’s mouth. He flinched and turned away, reminding Walburga of a particularly head-shy Abraxan colt of her grandfather’s from her youth. 

“Enough of this, now” she said sharply. “Without this potion you would have died days ago. And unless you finish the course you may well still fall ill again. I’ll not have my efforts wasted on account of your stubbornness. Now, open” 

Reluctantly, Sirius silently opened his mouth and allowed his mother to deposit the single drop of potion onto his tongue. He yelped as it hissed, fizzed and dissolved. 

“What the hell is in that stuff?” he asked with a grimace. 

“The necessary ingredients” Walburga replied shortly as she busied herself with measuring out the dose of the nutrition tonic. 

“Well, I didn’t think it was pumpkin juice,” Sirius murmured. “Speaking of which, I’m guessing that’s not what that is, either?”

“You guessed right,” Walburga replied drily as she held the phial up to the light to check the quality of the bright orange liquid. 

“What is it, then?” Sirius asked when it became clear that his mother didn’t see fit to enlighten him unprompted. 

“It is a nutritional tonic” said Walburga, growing impatient with his questions. 

She felt a momentary pang at the memory of having tended to Regulus when he had fallen ill with a winter chill during one Christmas break. Unlike his elder brother, her younger son had never asked such questions, had always obediently swallowed his mother’s remedies without a fight. 

She forced herself to suppress the memory against the rising tide of emotion it evoked, as thoughts of her deceased son always did.

“What’s the point in taking that, when I’m about to eat anyway?” asked Sirius. “Is food not enough?” 

Walburga tilted her head to one side and smirked slightly in amusement. 

“Oh? Suddenly you’re in favour of porridge after all?” 

A faint but evident flush of pink appeared in her son’s pale, hollow cheeks, giving him a hint of a satisfyingly healthy complexion at last. 

“To answer your question-” Walburga said with an impatient sigh. “No, it is not enough - not for you. You’ve been far too ill to eat at all until now and without this tonic, you would have died of starvation days ago, fading fever or not. This will ensure you get your strength back as quickly as possible. So, unless you desire to spend any longer in bed than necessary, I suggest you do as I say and take it” 

She picked up the phial once more and firmly lifted it to Sirius’s mouth. To her satisfaction, he did not resist further, simply swallowed the orange liquid with a grimace. 

“Not as sweet as it looks” he remarked, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. 

The shake in his spindly arm as he did so did not go unnoticed by his eagle-eyed mother.

“It is a _medicinal_ potion, Sirius” said Walburga. “A pleasant taste is entirely surplus to requirement” 

It was true, there were certain potions which could tolerate the addition of a little sugar without damaging the quality, but Walburga had never been one for such frivolous indulgences in her potion-making. 

“Here-”

She picked up the porridge bowl once again and gave the contents a stir. 

“This ought to take the taste away” she said as she loaded the spoon.

Sirius eyed the steaming porridge with distaste. 

“I’m not hungry” he claimed, at almost the exact same time as his stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl. 

“Clearly” said Walburga wryly, eyebrows raised. 

Sirius’s cheeks flushed pinker still. 

“Can’t I have something else?” he asked. “It’s been three years, after all. I’d much prefer a decent fry up” 

“You’re in no fit state to handle such greasy rubbish” Walburga said firmly as she lifted the spoon. She shot him a warning glare. “Now, stop this foolishness and eat your breakfast” 

To her somewhat surprise, Sirius did not resist further. Though frowning in obvious dislike, he accepted the spoonfuls of porridge in silence. 

The sight of the empty bowl released a sense of relief within Walburga. Safe in the knowledge that her starved son has at last consumed some proper, hot, nourishing food, she could allow herself to breathe just a little easier. 

“You never answered my question” said Sirius quietly as Walburga tapped the empty bowl with her wand, vanishing it. 

“Yes I did” Walburga replied, her voice dismissive. 

“No, you didn’t” 

Rejuvenated by the food, Sirius pushed himself up from his half-sitting position a little further against the pillows. 

“You never told me why you did it. Why you got me out” 

Walburga felt a painful knot tighten in the pit of her stomach. She was running towards a dead end and she knew it. She could only avoid Sirius’s questions for so long. Sooner or later, she would have to answer. 

“When they realised you were ill, the Ministry sent me a letter” she explained, tackling the easier of the two questions. “Inviting me to visit you, before you died” 

It seemed a cruel thing, in hindsight. To allow one to visit a relative in such a place - to look, to touch, to speak to… but not to save. Walburga was surprised no one had attempted what she had done before now.

“And you… accepted?” 

Walburga fixed her son with a dry look. 

“You needn’t sound so surprised” she quipped. 

“It’s just an odd concept, is all. You wanting to visit me in prison” Sirius glanced down at the bed, his confidence seeming to falter for a moment. “I don’t see why you’d bother visiting. Let alone go to the hassle of getting me out”

“It is as I said before,” said Walburga, quietly but firmly. “If I had walked away and left you in Azkaban, you would certainly have died. That- simply wasn’t something I could do” 

“But why?” Sirius asked, exasperated. “You didn’t give a damn about me for five years before Azkaban, why would you suddenly care now?” 

It wasn’t Sirius’s words which stung the most, but the conviction with which he spoke them. It was clear as day that there was no doubt in his mind that she - his own mother - would happily see him on the brink of a wretched death in the most miserable of places and be content to leave him there to rot. 

The thought struck Walburga like a stinging hex to the chest. It angered her. It fuelled her. 

She reached out a hand and, gently but firmly, tilted Sirius’s chin up, forcing him to look at her. He did not resist.

“Whatever the circumstances, whatever may have happened in the past-” She fixed her firstborn with a piercing look, staring directly into the identical silver eyes. “-I am still your mother” 

For what must surely have been the first time in his life, Sirius did not have a comeback. He stared searchingly at Walburga, clearly searching for any hint that may suggest the presence of a lie. But he could stare all day if he wished and still be unsuccessful. Not that Walburga had time for such things. 

“You look tired,” she said, breaking the moment between them. She turned his head to one side, examining his worn-out face for a moment before releasing him. “You ought to rest a while longer” 

“I’m fine” 

He looked anything but. His eyes looked heavy from the effort of keeping them open, his face had paled once more and he was still so painfully thin, so fragile-looking…

“You are not fine until I say you are,” said Walburga firmly. 

“Look, I’ve taken all your potions, I’ve eaten the damned porridge, surely I can get up for just a bit-”

In the middle of attempting to lift himself upright enough to get out of bed, Sirius’s arms shuddered under his weight and gave way beneath him, sending him collapsing back down against the pillows. 

Walburga was on him in an instant, seizing the opportunity to tuck the loosened covers back around him firmly. 

“There, you see?” she said, raising her eyebrows at him. “I’d hardly call that an example of someone ready and able to be out of bed. You require rest to regain your strength. Here-”

Walburga tapped the bedside table and a new dose phial appeared. She began to measure out a dose of the dreamless sleeping draught. 

“No” said Sirius, scowling stubbornly. “No more of that stuff. I’ll sleep when I want to” 

“It is not simply to help you fall asleep, Sirius” Walburga sighed. “From the look of you, I’m sure you’d have no trouble with that - if you let yourself. It is to ensure you have a peaceful sleep, undisturbed by your-” She paused for a moment. “-memories”

Sirius looked away. 

“I don’t want it” he muttered defiantly. 

Walburga looked down at her son. Even in such a sorry state, he still had to have the last word, to put up even a token struggle against what was best for him, simply for the sake of it. As if the sky might fall down if he ever allowed himself to simply do as his mother bade him without question.

His iron will was something even the dementors of Azkaban could not break. The thought invoked a sense of pride within Walburga. Her boy was strong, even if that strength meant him defying her at every turn.

“Very well, then” 

Sirius had clearly not expected her answer. At the sound of her words, his eyes flickered up to look at her curiously. 

“What?” he asked, slack-mouthed. 

“You don’t wish to take the sleeping draught, then fine. Don’t take it”

Walburga placed the dose phial, with the measure of potion still inside, on the bedside table, within Sirius’s reach. She then pointed her wand at the bed and gave it a single, sharp flick. The covers glowed a faint shade of green for a moment, startling the bed’s occupant. 

“What did you do?” Sirius asked, his eyes flashing with suspicion. 

“You need to rest” 

At his mother’s stark, telling words, Sirius attempted to sit up. As he did so, the limp fabric of the bedding seemed to tighten, the edges holding themselves down firmly, preventing him from rising. He tried to remove his arms from under the covers but once again, the fabric did not allow it, keeping them trapped beneath the covers.

“You can’t just-!” 

“I suggest you focus on saving your strength, instead of wasting it on fruitless efforts” said Walburga, the picture of calm composure against her son’s frustrated struggling. “Wasting energy will only mean you take longer to recover” 

Sirius let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a moan as he finally ceased fighting his mother’s entrapment charm - a spell she had encountered several years ago in a scarcely-read book in the library and had instantly wished she’d known of during Sirius’s childhood, when he could not be trusted to remain in bed when ill. 

Sirius glared daggers up at his mother. 

“You mad old-” 

“I will leave the sleeping draught here, in case you change your mind” Walburga gestured to the phial on the bedside table. “The charm will allow you to reach out your arm far enough to take it, but no more”

She paused beside the bed for a moment, examining a lock of matted hair which had fallen into Sirius’s eyes during his thrashing about. She reached out and brushed it aside with her fingers, her eyes carefully avoiding the capture of her son’s furious gaze. 

His hair was in dire need of a proper cut, she thought to herself. But that was a matter for another day. When he was stronger. 

“I have matters to attend to,” said Walburga after a moment’s pause. “I will return later. Get some sleep” 

Sirius stubbornly refused to match her lukewarm words of farewell with a reply.

As Walburga shut the bedroom door behind her, a small, growling voice reached her ears. 

“Mistress-” 

She looked down to find the house elf peering up at her with a parchment scroll clutched in his spindly fingers. He held it up to her with his head bowed. 

“-a letter just arrived for you” 

Walburga took the scroll, noting the familiar black wax seal.

“Prepare my breakfast in the parlour” she replied to the elf. “I will be there in a few minutes”

The elf disappeared to do as he was bid. Now alone, Walburga broke the seal bearing the family coat of arms and unrolled the parchment. 

_I will come at noon to examine the boy. We will discuss the matter then. Discuss nothing with him until I have arrived._

_Arcturus Black_

Walburga could practically hear the letter’s few words barked at her in her father-in-law’s gruff, demanding tone. She was glad now to have resisted the urge to pry information out of Sirius herself straight away, as she had so longed to. At least she would be spared having to endure the irritation of the patriarch’s displeasure at her having dared to start without him.

She rolled the scroll closed again and deposited it inside the pocket of her gown skirt. 

Pausing outside the bedroom door for a moment, Walburga listened keenly for sounds within, but there were none. No frustrated moans, no rustling of the bedclothes as Sirius fought the spell that kept him in bed. Perhaps he had taken her advice, for once, and succumbed to the sleep which he’d so clearly looked like he’d needed. 

Walburga could not help but allow herself the indulgence of a fond smile. Sirius’s wilful nature may be frustrating, aggravating, even angering at times, but he would not be her Sirius without it. 

And, after all, Walburga Black did so love a challenge. 

* * *

_Cold. An intense, bone-chilling cold which consumed him with such intensity that not even numbness was offered as an escape. Voices. Terrible, pained voices, calling out words he had not heard but knew had been said, swirling about him like flecks of dust in the air. Flashes. Scenes that flashed before his eyes, each one lingering not long enough to fully make out in detail before the terrible sight was replaced by the next; Muggle children walking the streets in fake wizards’ robes and witches’ hats, carved, lit pumpkin lanterns on a garden wall, a house reduced to rubble, the roof caved in, a black-haired baby wrapped in a blanket-_

Sirius gasped as his eyes shot wide open. He stared up at the golden chandelier, panting heavily, his head swimming. 

It was just a dream, he told himself, as he did after every such dream. Just another bad dream forced into his mind by the demen-

No. Not the dementors. Not anymore. He wasn’t in Azkaban, he had to remind himself. He was at Grimmauld Place. He was home. 

Those words still felt impossible to believe and yet they were very much the truth, as absolutely absurd as they sounded. 

Sirius blinked hard in the dim candlelight of the Emerald Room. He glanced towards the tall window to see bright daylight trickling through the gaps in the drawn curtains, much brighter than it had been previously. What time was it? When had he fallen asleep? 

He attempted to sit himself up against the headboard - and the covers tucked firmly around his shoulders suddenly sealed themselves tight against him, keeping him down. 

Sirius groaned in annoyance at his mother’s spell, effectively keeping him trapped right where she wanted him. She had never been one for subtle gestures, but this new spell was particularly aggravating. Sirius had always hated the feeling of being contained, restricted. And a spell which prevented him from so much as sitting up in bed, let alone get out of bed, was deeply frustrating, no matter what the intention behind it.

“You need to rest” she had said as she’d cast the spell which imprisoned him within his own bed. “Wasting energy will only mean you take longer to recover” 

The concept of his mother being the one responsible for his freedom from Azkaban, for saving his life and nursing him back to health, was still one which he found hard to wrap his head around. For the majority of his life, the name Walburga Black conjured images in Sirius’s head of a cold, austere witch, not a coal-black curl out of place whilst she worked her venom deep into him; how he was a disgrace, a disappointment, a shame on the family and the name he was born with. It did not conjure images of his mother tucking him into bed, feeding him porridge, taking care of him whilst he was sick… 

This was indeed a very strange world he had awoken in. 

Why had she done it? Why had she gone to so much trouble (however she’d done it, it surely couldn’t have been an easy feat) to free him - the white sheep of the Black family? Why was he here? The short-changed answer his mother had offered him that morning surely couldn’t have been all there was to it. Years of turbulence and estrangement couldn’t just suddenly be forgotten on the simple fact that she was “still his mother” There must surely be some other factor at play here that he hadn’t realised yet. 

The sound of the bedroom door unlocking wrenched Sirius from his thoughts. He glanced across the room to see his mother enter. She wore a gown of deep, forest green - the same gown she had worn earlier that morning - a rope of glinting onyx stones looped around her neck several times over and the same intense, sharp-eyed look that had never failed to turn Sirius into an awkward ball of self-consciousness in as many years as he could remember.

“I hope you’ve managed to get some rest these last few hours?” Walburga asked expectantly by way of greeting. 

“Hours?” Sirius was stunned. Had he really slept that long?

His mother arched an eyebrow.

“I’ll assume your lack of awareness as to the time means that you did” 

“And the time is?”

“Just gone twelve o’clock” 

Noon. He had slept the whole morning away. And after all his earlier talk about feeling well enough to be up and about... 

Walburga strode over to the bed and bent over her son, pressing her palm to Sirius’s forehead. Sirius furrowed his brow in annoyance at the unauthorised intrusion but did not attempt to pull away. His protests would not stop her, and besides, he was in no position to get away. 

“No fever” Walburga remarked. “It’s really quite something, what a few hours’ rest can achieve” 

“Oh yes, I’m sure it had nothing to do with whatever is in that vile black gunk you forced into me” Sirius retorted. 

“That ‘vile black gunk’ saved your life” Walburga said sharply, glaring down at her scowling firstborn.

“So you keep reminding me” Sirius narrowed his eyes up at his mother suspiciously. “Not that you’re in any hurry to tell me what’s in this potion capable of curing an incurable illness” 

He observed how his mother’s mouth flattened into a thin line, her grey eyes glinting with annoyance at his questions. His mother had always hated being questioned. 

“ _That_ is none of your concern” she said, stiffly. “What is your concern is ensuring that you continue to heal and regain your strength”

“What do you think I’ve been doing all morning, staring at the ceiling?”

His mother’s gaze intensified at his quip. Her steel eyes bore into Sirius’s for a moment, silently, before they flickered towards the untouched phial of sleeping draught on the bedside table. 

“And did you sleep well?” she asked. 

Without the sleeping draught , were the unspoken words with which that sentence was supposed to end.

“Perfectly” Sirius replied firmly, shoving all memory of the unpleasant final moments of his sleep before waking to the back of his mind.

The corner of Walburga’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. The minutest of hints, but one which Sirius recognised as annoyance - his mother’s annoyance at having missed an opportunity to declare herself as having been right all along. 

He forced himself to suppress a triumphant smirk.

“In fact I’m feeling rather refreshed” he continued with an air of forced cheerfulness. “So if you wouldn’t mind releasing me from this- this, duvet prison of yours?”

There was a moment of silence whilst Walburga considered her son’s request. She stared down at him, clearly inspecting him for any sign which might give her justification for denying his request. But when she found none, she silently took out her wand and gave the stick of elm wood a flick in the direction of the bed. The covers glowed the same bright green as they had before, and when Sirius attempted to sit up, this time, the covers did not force him to stay down. 

Sirius did indeed feel better after his morning’s rest, although keeping his arms from shaking as he hoisted himself up was still a great effort. His mother watched him like a hawk as he settled himself against the pillows, her eyes keenly trained on him, ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness. 

“You do look a good deal more well-rested than you did this morning” she remarked, sitting herself down in the chair by his bedside, her wand resting in her lap. “Which is just as well, considering” 

Sirius’s ears pricked up at her words. 

“Considering what?” he asked, his guard automatically up. 

His mother sat up a little straighter, her shoulders tensed.

“Last night, just before you fell asleep, you- spoke a little” 

The suggestiveness of her tone immediately set Sirius on edge. 

“Did I?” he asked, avoiding his mother’s intense gaze. “What about?” 

“About- what happened, that night” Her grip tightened around the handle of her wand, her knuckles whitening with effort. “The night you were arrested” 

Sirius’s eyes widened as he felt a shiver of dread run through him. He suddenly felt as though all the warmth from his body had immediately drained away. Feelings of fear and panic began to fill him. Feelings connected to the past. Feelings he had not allowed himself to feel for a long time. Feelings he had always retreated into his dog form to avoid being forced to confront by the dementors. 

But this was not Azkaban. This was Grimmauld Place and there were no dementors here Only his mother. And Padfoot could not protect him from her.

“I didn’t-” he spoke hurriedly, with no real idea of where his hurried words would take him. “I don’t-”

“We need to ask you some questions, Sirius” Walburga said in a quiet yet firm voice as she leaned forward in her chair slightly, her hands clasped together firmly in her lap. “We need to know exactly what happened that night”. 

"‘ _We’?_ ” asked Sirius, his eyes flashing with suspicion. 

In answer to his question, the bedroom door opened once again, in a manner so timely it was as though the person behind it had been lying in wait just outside the door, waiting for the most opportune moment to make their entrance. 

As the door swung open, Sirius was confronted with the sight of Arcturus Black, his grandfather and head of the Black family, for the first time in eight years. 

“You” said Sirius grimly, his voice devoid of all the warmth and happiness which one might normally expect from a man reunited with his grandson after so many years. 

“Careful, boy, don’t over-excite yourself” Arcturus barked sarcastically at his grandson as he made his way into the room, pausing at the foot of the bed, facing Sirius head-on. “You might wear yourself out” 

Sirius’s surprised expression darkened into one of painfully-obvious dislike as he watched Arcturus. Studying his grandfather closely, he suddenly felt as though the last eight years had not passed. Every inch of him was as it had always been; he wore the same heavy robes of deep crimson, the same gold signet ring glinting on his finger, trapped there by the swollen knuckle of his claw-like,arthritic hand which clutched the same ivory-handled walking cane that he had once threatened to beat Sirius with after he had sent a priceless suit of armour at Noire House crashing to the ground in an attempt to get inside it, no less than seventeen years ago.

The man had scarcely changed at all from Sirius’s last memory of him. He didn’t even seem to have gained an additional wrinkle on his scowling face. The old cretin would outlive them all, Sirius thought to himself. 

“Still clinging on then, I see?” Sirius quipped, shooting Arcturus a look of matching distaste.

Beside him, Walburga’s mouth thinned disapprovingly at her son’s impertinence. 

“Sirius” she warned him, her tone low and heavy. 

“I might say the same to you,” Arcturus replied to his grandson. Neither the elder man nor the younger showed any indication of having heard the witch sat between them, such was the intensity with which their eyes were fixed upon one another. “I’d have thought that three years in Azkaban might have made more of an impression on you” 

_You’d hoped it had turned me into a quivering wreck for you to bend to your will, you mean._

“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Sirius with obvious irony.

It was no hidden fact that Arcturus and Sirius had never shared what one might call a “warm” relationship. The stern-faced, sharp-tongued Black patriarch so rarely had a good word to say about anyone, even amongst his own family, but there seemed to be no one he had fewer good words for than his eldest grandson. Glancing back across the years of his childhood, Sirius could recall endless occasions during which he had endured his grandfather’s barked orders for him to sit up, be still, behave, conduct himself in the manner befitting a Black. 

Sirius had long-since given up even attempting to obey - none of his attempts were ever deemed worthy of the old man’s satisfaction. 

Under Arcturus’s iron gaze, Sirius pulled himself up a little straighter in bed, all too aware of how those beady grey eyes were looking him up and down, no doubt absorbing every aspect of his prison-ravaged form and deciding how best to file away his findings in his vast mental library of reasons why Sirius was a disgrace to the family. 

“So. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Sirius asked with stiff formality. 

“Don’t get smart with me, boy” said Arcturus sharply. 

Here we go, Sirius thought to himself. He’s off on one already. It’s only been - what, two minutes?

“You know perfectly well why I’m here” Arcturus prowled around the side of the bed to stand beside his seated daughter-in-law, never once taking his eyes off of Sirius, as if the old man expected his grandson to leap out of bed at any moment and lunge at him. 

“To check if the unfortunate news that I’m alive and back at Grimmauld Place was true?” Sirius cocked an eyebrow up at his grandfather. “It’s all true, I’m afraid. You must be gutted” 

“Don’t talk such nonsense, Sirius” Walburga chided her son. “That is no way to speak to your grandfather” 

“ Particularly after he’s invested enough gold to redecorate Noire House three times over in your freedom” said Arcturus with a huff of annoyance.

Sirius’s mouth fell open in surprise. 

“Y-you?” 

“Yes, me” Arcturus snapped. 

“But- but Mother-”

“Your mother wouldn’t have had the slightest chance of securing your release without my help” Arcturus cut off his flabbergasted grandson mid-sentence. “Without my position and financial backing the Ministry would have laughed her requests out of the room” 

Sirius glanced across to his mother, who’s stony-faced expression gave away none of her inner feelings towards Arcturus’s remarks, whatever they may be. 

“But- why? ” he asked, staring up at his grandfather’s ever-scowling face. “Why the hell would you do such a thing for me?” Sirius ended his question with a snort of amusement at the complete absurdity of the suggestion that Arcturus Black, of all people, would toss so much as a knut towards freeing him from Azkaban, let alone the vast sum he alluded to having spent.

Arcturus’s eyes narrowed down at his grandson. 

“I think we’ve heard enough questions out of that mouth of yours for now” he growled lowly as he stared down at Sirius. “I’d say it’s high time you started providing us with some answers , instead” 

Sirius swallowed apprehensively. 

“Answers?” he repeated. 

  
“Don’t play the fool with me, boy, you know exactly what we want to hear from you” 

  
“And that is?” Sirius shot his grandfather a look of feigned curiosity, ignoring the sharp warning glare from his mother beside him.

  
Arcturus’s eyes flashed with annoyance, his jaw clenching. 

  
“An explanation ” he growled. “We want the full story of precisely what happened that night”

  
“I can’t think why” Sirius leaned back against the pillows and looked away, eyeing the wardrobe in the far corner of the room, hiding his deep unease at the thought of having to re-tell his tale under an outer impression of boredom. “Surely you read the whole juicy tale in the Prophet at the time? I bet it was a big scoop” 

  
“Oh, it was” Arcturus seethed in a voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. “Your face was plastered all over the front pages for days. Cackling away like an unhinged maniac ” 

  
The patriarch’s voice shuddered with barely-controlled rage. 

  
Sirius’s blood ran cold at the sudden return of a long-forgotten memory. The Aurors dragging him away from the chaos, their hands digging into his skin, clutching at his body as it shook with the force of his laughter. He could remember the act of laughing, though not the feeling of it. He hadn’t laughed since. He wasn’t sure he remembered how to. 

  
“Well then” said Sirius quietly. “Considering how well you can recall what a nut job I looked like on the front page, I hardly think you need me to repeat the whole article to you as well” 

  
He dared not look up from where he stared down at the duvet, but he was certain his grandfather must have turned an unpleasant shade of purple by now. No doubt the old man would launch into yet another tirade about what an impertinent disgrace his grandson was and then storm out of the room, leaving Sirius in peace. 

  
Alas, his mother had no intention of letting him off the hook quite so easily. 

  
“You spoke in your sleep last night, Sirius” Walburga reminded him. “You said things which suggest that there is more to this case than was reported in the newspaper” 

  
Sirius could feel the magnetic pull of his mother’s intense gaze drawing his eyes up to look at her, almost against his own will. Sure enough, his mother’s eyes, an exact match to his own, practically gleamed with certainty. Certainty that there were secrets to the infamous tale that Sirius was hiding from them, and a certainty that he would reveal them to his mother and grandfather whether he liked it or not. 

  
Sirius sighed. 

  
“Alright,” he said, defeated. “What do you want to know?” 

  
“Start from the beginning” Arcturus demanded briskly, barely a second after Sirius had finished his question. He folded both gnarled hands over the ivory handle of his cane, leaning forward expectantly.“Tell it all and tell it true . None of your childish flourishes ” 

  
Sirius glared at his grandfather’s reference to his childhood habit of inventing wild and imaginative excuses in an attempt to avoid punishment for his misdemeanours. 

  
“If you trust me so little, why don’t you just shove some Veritaserum down my throat and have done with it?” 

  
“Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind, boy” Arcturus threatened with a low growl. 

  
“Enough of this” Walburga snapped impatiently, glaring at both her son and father-in-law. “We’ll be here all day at this rate”

  
The witch turned to her son, fixing him with an expectant look. 

  
“Sirius, tell us what happened that night, from the beginning” she commanded. 

  
Sirius took a deep, uneasy breath. He could not put off the inevitable any longer.

  
“It’s- hard to know where to start,” he muttered, honestly. 

  
“Well, where do you think was the start of it all?” his mother asked, in a surprisingly patient voice that Sirius wasn’t used to from her. 

  
He paused for a moment, considering.

  
“With the Fidelius Charm, I suppose”

  
“Ah yes, _that_ ” Arcturus tutted. 

  
“How do you know about it?" Sirius demanded. "No one was supposed to know about the Charm" 

  
"The Ministry became aware of it after the whole scheme blew up so spectacularly in your face" Arcturus replied gruffly, his grey eyes glinting with disapproval. "Dumbledore informed the Department of Law Enforcement, after your arrest"

  
Sirius felt a jolt in his stomach as he processed Arcturus's words. Dumbledore had told the Ministry that he was the supposed Secret Keeper. Dumbledore had been at the Ministry after his arrest, had been involved in the case. And Dumbledore had believed that he had betrayed James and Lily...

  
"I wasn't aware that what went on in the Department of Law Enforcement was any of your concern" said Sirius, burying his true thoughts under a facade of sarcastic lack of interest.

  
Arcturus leaned forwards against his cane, staring intently at Sirius. 

  
"When what goes on in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement concerns a member of my family, no matter how wretched, then it becomes my concern"

  
Sirius glanced sideways at his mother, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout. Judging by her carefully-constructed blank mask, perfect for concealing confusion or surprise, she had not been aware of the details of the plan, the fall-out of which had seen him arrested. He wondered why. Had she not heard of the plan from Arcturus? He could hardly imagine his grandfather missing an opportunity to rant to the whole Black clan about his disgraced grandson's ultimate cock-up.

  
"Well? What are you waiting for?" Arcturus barked, breaking the silence. "Continue" 

  
“It was Dumbledore’s idea, using the Fidelius Charm" Sirius's voice was low with distaste at the memory of it all. "He said it was our best shot at hiding Harry from Voldemort”

  
The two elder Blacks’ expressions darkened at the sound of the name. 

  
“And yet, it failed,” said Arcturus, his mouth curving up into a slight smirk at the satisfying thought of the plan created by Albus Dumbledore having failed.

  
“Yes” Sirius replied bitterly. “It failed” 

  
“And why was that?” 

  
Sirius felt his insides churn with building anger. 

  
“Because we chose the wrong Secret Keeper” he seethed. 

  
“Oh?" Arcturus's head tilted in curiosity. "You are saying that you were the wrong choice for the role?"

  
“No...” Sirius murmured, almost too low to hear. 

  
“Speak up, boy” 

  
“I wasn’t the Secret Keeper” Sirius snapped, aggravated by his grandfather’s impatient bark. 

  
Walburga and Arcturus stared at him. A tense silence hung between the three Blacks. If it hadn’t been for the pain of the topic at hand, Sirius might have felt a degree of amusement at the shocked expressions of his mother and grandfather. But in that moment, he was incapable of feeling anything other than rage - a deep, suppressed fire within him which had been subdued for so long, but never fully extinguished, now finally allowed to flare once more.

  
“You… weren’t the Secret Keeper?” asked Arcturus. 

  
“No” 

  
The patriarch’s eyes narrowed down at Sirius. 

  
"If you're lying to me, boy-"

  
"I'm not" Sirius spat with venom. "I wasn't the Secret Keeper"

  
"So Dumbledore lied to the Ministry, when he told us that you were? Is that what you are insinuating?"

  
"No" Sirius sighed. He began to feel tired and heavy under the weight of his grandfather's accusations.

  
“So who _was_ the Potters' Secret Keeper?” Arcturus demanded.

  
Sirius swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure he could speak the name. A hard lump rose in his throat as he prepared to speak, as though the feel of the words on his tongue might make him sick. 

  
“Peter Pettigrew” 

  
Walburga sucked in a sharp breath, her blank mask falling away to reveal undisguised shock at the sound of the name. Sirius looked up at her. His mother looked startled, as though she had seen a ghost. 

  
“That is the name you spoke last night” she whispered. “You said that it wasn’t you, that you didn’t do it. That it was Peter ”

  
“Is this true, boy?” Arcturus growled threateningly.“If you're spinning us another one of your tales-” 

  
“Of course it’s true” Sirius spat angrily. “Do you really think that I’d lie about this?”

  
Arcturus’s creased face flushed with colour at being spoken to so rudely. His hands began to shake under the weight with which he was leaning against his cane. He really ought to sit down, Sirius thought, before he keeled over. 

  
"Well it certainly does seem plausible, given the word fo the wizard you are up against. Dumbledore may be a half-blood fool but even he wouldn't be so foolish as to lie to-"

  
"We swapped" Sirius blurted out suddenly, silencing his grandfather's opposition. "We swapped Secret Keepers. It was supposed to have been me. James wanted it to be me..."

  
“James?” Arcturus's brow furrowed.

  
“The Potter boy” Walburga murmured. 

  
“James” Sirius’s voice was low and dangerous as he glared the two elder Blacks. “His name was James ” 

  
His hands clutched fistfuls of the bed covers tightly, his breathing deep and slow in an attempt to control its shuddering. This was hard. All memory and feeling of the events that had led to his imprisonment had been buried deep inside him for the last three years. Reliving them now awoke old, painful feelings, fermented with age, far too potent. 

  
“Continue, Sirius” Walburga prompted, calmly. 

  
Sirius took a deep breath and did as he was bade.

  
“In the beginning, the plan was for me to be the Secret Keeper,” said Sirius. “We all agreed - including Dumbledore. But I thought I was too obvious a choice. I thought, if we went for someone less obvious - in secret - and let everyone think it was me…”

  
“A decoy” said Arcturus with a snort. 

  
“Yes” Sirius could see the disapproval etched clearly on Arcturus’s face. “Peter was a friend from school. A close friend. Close enough to trust - or so we thought” 

  
He let out a dark chuckle at the thought. 

  
“Little did we know-” Sirius’s voice was light, joking, as though he were on the cusp of the punchline of a brilliant joke. “-he was working for Voldemort the whole time! Can you believe that?” 

  
Something inside him cracked. He began to laugh, a deep and terrible laugh. He couldn’t seem to stop, the whole concept of the thing was just so damn funny. 

  
“Silence!” 

  
Arcturus’s sharp shout was accompanied with the swish of wood whipping through the air as the old man drew out his wand and pointed it at his cackling grandson threateningly. 

  
Sirius’s laughter tailed off as he winced, fully expecting his grandfather to stun him. But instead, Arcturus reached out towards Sirius and lifted his chin with his wand tip, locking eyes with him. 

  
“We’ve had quite enough of your nonsense” Arcturus said threateningly. “If your plan is to somehow derail this conversation with your hysterics and earn yourself the easy way out, then you’re sorely mistaken. Now, tell us the rest. Calmly . Do I make myself clear?”

  
Sirius locked eyes with the elder Black for a moment, their shared rage and distaste towards each other mingling. His gaze flickered sideways for a moment, catching sight of his mother, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during his outburst. 

  
Walburga sat, wide-eyed and alert, staring at him with alarm. Her already porcelain complexion had whitened with shock. She looked startled, almost spooked by him. It was a startlingly different image of his mother than Sirius was used to. 

  
“Fine” he muttered in reply to his grandfather. 

  
Arcturus withdrew his wand and replaced it within the pocket of his robes. 

  
“So,” the old man cleared his throat. “Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper, and he betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord. So how did events really play out that night?”

  
“The night of the attack, I went to check on Peter in his hiding place. But he wasn't there" 

  
Sirius felt the anger inside him begin to burn brighter at the memory - how he'd blasted down the locked door with his wand when there was no answer to his knock, how he'd expected to find the place a mess, with obvious signs of a struggle, but finding everything in perfect order. It was all far too perfect.

  
I knew then that something was wrong. There had to be. I went straight to Godric’s Hollow,” said Sirius, his skin crawling as images of the broken house flashed before him in his mind. “And when I saw what had happened, I-” 

  
He winced and paused, screwing his eyes closed at the memory of what he had seen that night.

  
“You wanted to kill Pettigrew,” said Arcturus. 

  
“Yes” whispered Sirius. 

  
“But you didn’t?”

  
“No”

  
Arcturus gave a bemused huff. It was clear he did not believe Sirius. 

  
“So Pettigrew killed himself then, did he?”

  
“I wish he had” Sirius seethed. “I wish he was dead. It’s no less than he deserves” 

  
“You mean to tell us-” Walburga leaned forward in her chair. “-that Pettigrew is _alive?_ ” 

  
“Yes” 

  
“Poppycock” Arcturus waved a hand dismissively. “Utter nonsense. The man was blown up, along with twelve muggles. All they found was-”

  
“-a finger” Sirius interrupted, staring up at his grandfather. “A finger which he cut off himself to make everyone believe precisely that” 

  
Arcturus’s mouth twitched, his conviction clearly wavering. But still, he would not be convinced. 

  
“This is absurd. That street was blown to high heaven! No one could have survived it”

  
“I did” 

  
Arcturus glared down at Sirius. 

  
“The caster of such a spell is not subject to its wrath. Even a First Year pup knows that”

  
“Except I didn’t cast it,” Sirius argued, growing impatient with his grandfather’s continual refusal to believe him. “It was Peter. He blew up that street to cover his back so he could make his escape and leave me to take the fall”

  
“Oh really?” Arcturus chuckled, as he had done when presented with one of Sirius’s tall childhood tales. “And how did he make his escape, hmm? Apparated away, did he? A likely story - in all that chaos. He’d never have managed it”

  
“He didn’t Apparate” Sirius resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his grandfather’s rambling, rather than simply allow him to answer. Arcturus Black always had to control the conversation. “He- transformed”

  
Sirius knew he was going to have to explain it one way or another. But he had to do it carefully. He might have to confess Peter’s secret, but he was determined to keep his own.

  
“Transformed, you say?” Arcturus tilted his head to one side. “How so?”

  
“Peter is an Animagus” 

  
There was a silent pause as Arcturus and Walburga processed this new information. 

  
“An Animagus?” Walburga repeated, clearly taken aback. 

  
“I thought I’d made it abundantly clear” Arcturus seethed. “That you were not to lie to me, boy”

  
“I’m not lying!” Sirius lurched forwards in the bed, baring his teeth angrily. 

  
“Sirius, calm down” Walburga put a firm hand on her son’s shoulder and firmly pushed him back against the pillows. 

  
“An Animagus, indeed” Arcturus chuckled in disbelief. “At what - twenty years old? Twenty-one? It takes a great deal of study and time to master such a skill. Hardly an achievable feat for one so young” 

  
Sirius snorted. 

  
“Well, I assure you, it’s achievable, because Peter Pettigrew is an Animagus. I’ve seen it for myself”

  
“Alright. Suppose that this Pettigrew boy is , as you say, an Animagus” Arcturus’s patronising tone, as though talking to a child he knew was spinning him a story, made Sirius’s jaw clench in stifled irritation. “What sort of animal does he turn into?” 

  
“A rat,” said Sirius. He practically spat the words in disgust. “Rather appropriate, in the end. He blew up that street, transformed and made a run for it. The blast he caused had opened up a crack in the sewers - he crawled off down there, I expect” 

  
Sirius hoped that would be the end of his grandfather’s queries into the logistics of the matter. He wanted to avoid all suspicion of himself as being an Animagus. Padfoot was his - a secret he was not willing to share.

  
Unfortunately, this particular bone was not one his mother was going to drop quite so easily. 

  
“How was it that this Pettigrew boy managed to become an Animagus so young?” she asked, her grey eyes glinting with suspicion. 

  
Sirius was careful to keep his expression blank. 

  
“Dunno” he said with a shrug. 

  
“After all, it’s a tricky business, becoming an Animagus” Walburga pondered. “One would assume that it would be rather hard to conceal such a substantial effort from such close friends”

  
Sirius averted his eyes away from her intense gaze. He never could hold his mother’s gaze when accused of a lie.

  
“Look - I can’t tell you how he did it, alright?” he said, exasperated. “It was the middle of a war, everyone had their secrets. I guess that was his. But that’s what he is, and that’s what happened. Believe me if you want, or don’t. I don’t care what you believe” 

  
Sirius suddenly felt very tired, though he made a valiant attempt to hide it. The digging up of old memories and reopening of old wounds had drained him of what little energy he had built up through his morning’s rest. He wanted to be left alone, to curl up into a ball and hide under the bed covers.

  
But Arcturus was not finished with him just yet. 

  
“What I cannot get over-” the old man shook his head as he looked down at Sirius. “-is why in Salazar’s name you were there in the first place”

  
Sirius furrowed his brow. 

  
“What?”

  
“In that street” said Arcturus. “In the middle of a muggle town, of all places, goodness knows how many miles from Godric’s Hollow, from London, from anywhere in which someone of any use to the situation could be found”

  
“I tracked Peter down,” said Sirius, darkly. “I went after him”

  
Arcturus’s eyes widened. 

  
“You ‘went after him’? ” he repeated, practically seething. 

  
“Yes” replied Sirius in a voice which suggested that in his mind, the concept of doing anything else in such a situation was absurd. 

  
“And Dumbledore approved of this ridiculous idea, did he? This was his back-up plan if the Fidelius Charm failed? To go charging in, all wands blazing, duelling in broad daylight in front of muggles”

  
“Dumbledore didn’t know”

  
“What?”

  
“Dumbledore didn’t know that I went after Peter. He didn’t know about any of it, not even the Secret Keeper switch”

  
There was a pregnant pause whilst Arcturus absorbed the gravity of Sirius’s confession.

  
“You idiot fool!” Arcturus spat furiously, pacing across the room before whirling back around to face his grandson. “Are you an _actual imbecile?_ ”

  
“What?” Sirius snapped, sitting up straighter and shooting his grandfather a challenging look. 

“That rat killed my best friends! Of course I went after him! I wanted him dead - I still do!”

  
“You should have sought some sort of assistance!” Arcturus shouted, slamming his cane down hard on the ground - a gesture which might have been more threatening had the floor not been so richly-carpeted, muffling the noise. “You should have used your brain and devised a logical solution, not gone loping off after Pettigrew like a hound on the scent of a rabbit!”

  
“Really, Sirius, what a foolish thing to do” Walburga said with an exasperated sigh before Sirius could shoot a reply back at Arcturus.

  
“I’d hardly call trying to avenge my dead friends foolish ” Sirius hissed at his mother. 

  
“Really?” Walburga arched an eyebrow up at him with one of those infuriatingly-righteous maternal looks that Sirius had always loathed. “Charging off to kill a supposedly-innocent man whilst everyone involved in your little scheme believes that you were the Secret Keeper who betrayed the Potters?”

  
Sirius’s words got caught in his throat before he could hurl them at her. Nothing he wanted to say in his defence seemed strong enough - not against his mother’s logical evaluation of his actions that night. 

  
“And you didn’t think to include anyone - not even Dumbledore , for Salazar’s sake, the ring-leader behind this whole ridiculous scheme - about the switch?”

  
Arcturus gave a dark chuckle.

  
“No wonder they locked you up and threw away the key, boy” Arcturus seethed, glaring down at his grandson with distaste. “You gave them the perfect scenario to close their case with - the whole damned war, in fact - handed it to them on a plate”

  
“You make it sound like I planned for this to happen” Sirius muttered angrily.

  
“One might almost suppose that you did, considering the mess you made of things!” Arcturus retorted. “The perfect end to the war - the Dark Lord destroyed and his right-hand man, a raving mass murderer, sent to Azkaban with no one left alive to even suggest that you might have been innocent, dragging this proud family’s name through the mud yet again-”

  
“Will you shut up!” Sirius shouted, nostrils flaring with rage. “It might surprise you to learn but not everything I do is an attempt to try and ruin your precious family name. When are you going to get your thick skull around the fact that there are bigger things going on in the world than this family?”

  
Arcturus’s face flushed a deep shade of purple. 

  
“You insolent little-”

  
“That is quite enough!” 

  
The force of Walburga’s shrill voice, so unexpected after her relatively quiet approach until now. 

  
Both the elder Black and the younger glared daggers at one another, neither daring to continue their spat under the witch’s iron gaze.

  
“I think we ought to end this now” said Walburga, getting to her feet and smoothing her skirts. “We’ve heard all we needed to hear” She turned to Arcturus. “We know quite enough for now. And Sirius is tired, he needs to rest”

  
“I’m fine” said Sirius, though in truth he was rather worn out. His head throbbed from the effort of shouting and the re-telling of his tale had left him feeling emotionally exhausted.

  
“No you’re not, you need to rest” 

  
Sirius did not reply. His mother’s words left no room for argument, and in truth, he had little strength left with which to argue.

  
“Very well,” said Arcturus. “I’ll be on my way, then” He shot Sirius one final, disgruntled look before turning to Walburga. “I’ll be in touch later today” 

  
And with that, the patriarch marched from the room without another word, practically slamming the bedroom door closed behind him. 

  
Walburga quickly busied herself with guiding Sirius back down into the bed. Sirius lay down willingly, for once too drained to fight back. 

  
“You ought not to provoke him so” said Walburga as she tucked the covers around him. 

  
“It’s not my fault he’s such a miserable old cretin” Sirius groaned, half-heartedly wriggling the covers loose around his shoulders. 

  
“Enough of that, now” Walburga’s unconvincing attempt at sternness did little to mask her true thoughts. 

  
Sirius knew perfectly well that his mother found her father-in-law as irritating as he did at times, not that she would thank him for saying as much out loud.

  
Such things were not to be spoken out loud - it simply wasn’t done.

  
“Here-” 

  
Sirius turned to see his mother holding a phial of sleeping draught up to his face. 

“Take this, and get some sleep. I’ll bring you some food in a few hours”

Before he had a chance to protest, and secretly glad to be relieved of the chance to, Sirius swallowed the sleeping draught and almost immediately felt the familiar light, fuzzy sensation begin to overcome him.

After all the chaotic roller-coaster of emotions he had endured over the last hour or so, the final thought which came to mind before he retreated into blissful oblivion, was how oddly comforting it was to feel his mother stroking his hair as he drifted off to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last - Chapter 6 has arrived. I'm sorry it's been a bit of a longer wait than previous updates, but the early chapters were written whilst I was on furlough from work (pandemic pass-time, woo) and May was a very difficult month for me, personally, and I just couldn't write because of it. But I'm back on track now. Hope you enjoyed, and as always, please leave a comment if you did (or if you didn't, I'm not choosy).
> 
> Feel free to send me a message/ask on my Tumblr @MarieKavanagh :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempers flare and interests clash as Walburga and Arcturus return to the Ministry for a second encounter with Millicent Bagnold and Bartemius Crouch. Meanwhile, at home, Sirius takes his first tentative steps out into the halls of Grimmauld Place and revisits some old memories...

**18th March 1984**

The Atrium was quiet. Starkly quiet, in comparison to the noise of the bustling crowds that had filled the vast hall during Walburga’s previous visit just over a week ago. It was almost seven o’clock in the morning, a good half an hour at least before the main surge of Ministry employees were due to sweep in through the fireplace hall to begin their day’s work. 

Arcturus has managed to secure them a last-minute meeting this morning with the Minister of Magic via an urgent owl sent yesterday afternoon. Walburga had not seen the letter’s exact contents and so was not certain exactly how much Arcturus had said about their intentions for the meeting, but she was of little doubt that the news that Sirius had recovered from his supposedly-terminal illness was information enough to secure the audience they required.

And if any final persuasion were needed, the Black family crest stamped in black wax onto the envelope was surely the appropriate final touch.

Walburga looked over towards the fireplace hall, from where her father-in-law was shortly due to emerge. She prayed he would not choose today to be late. She had no desire to waste a second dallying about in this eerily empty hall - not when she should be in the Minister’s office doing battle for the prize of her son’s freedom.

From where she stood in front of the golden fountain, Walburga could make out no more than six people around her; a pair of wizards in the distinct, navy-blue robes of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement murmuring together as they hurried across the tiled floor towards the lifts, an anxious-looking young witch in secretarial robes fumbling in her handbag for her “Staff” pass that would allow her through the inspection point, an aged wizard in drab service robes shuffling along, pushing his cart full of cleaning supplies whilst an enchanted broom swept itself along beside him. 

And a little boy, no older than four or five, staring at Walburga from a quarter of the way around the fountain. His freckled face peaked over the fountain’s golden edge, his large, blue eyes staring curiously at the witch on the other side of the falling water.

The child appeared to be alone. Walburga glanced about the Atrium but none of it’s few occupants seemed to have even noticed him. Walburga supposed whomever he was accompanied by had told him to wait here until they returned to collect him. What shameful parenting. The Ministry of Magic was no place for a small child barely old enough to make the leap from the nursery to the schoolroom.

Walburga sniffed and looked away, anxious not to make eye contact with the boy. Perhaps if she ignored him, he would stop staring at her. But every time her gaze happened to wander too far around the fountain, there he was - his eyes still keenly fixed on her. After several minutes, Walburga realised that the boy had slowly begun to edge his way around the fountain, taking several shy, shuffling steps at a time before pausing, his eyes still staring at her, until he was just a few short meters away.

“Has no one ever told you that it is rude to stare, child?” Walburga said sternly to the boy once he had become too close to ignore. 

She kept her head held at a proud angle, her body turned slightly away from him. But she couldn’t help but cast her eyes downward to examine the boy further. He was dressed in faded, slightly oversized robes with many scars from patching and repairs. He reminded Walburga of a street urchin from a Muggle novel from the last century. 

His hair, a vulgar shade of bright orange, was sticking up in messy tufts at odd angles.

“I like your hat” said the boy, pointing a stubby finger ending in a chewed nail up at Walburga’s wide-brimmed plum-coloured hat, finished with black trim and a thin, black ostrich feather on one side. It was part of a set, matching the smart, plum-and-black gown and close-fitting cloak she had chosen as her outfit for today’s meeting.

Walburga stared for a moment, wide-eyed at the impertinence of being pointed at so crudely.

“Thank you” she answered primly, deliberately looking away from the boy in the hope that he would now take his leave of her.

“Do you work here?” the boy asked, with all the innocent confidence of a child who most certainly was not aware that it was rude to stare at or talk to strangers. 

“Certainly not” Walburga replied sharply, edging away from the boy with a grimace as he sneezed without covering his face and wiped his nose on his sleeve. What despicable manners the child had. His parents ought to be ashamed - whoever and _wherever_ they were.

“What are you doing here, if you don’t work here?” The boy stepped closer to Walburga, his curious eyes roaming up and down her statuesque form curiously.

Walburga glared at being stared at like a museum attraction.

“ _That_ is none of your business” Her sharp, scolding tone - which had so often reduced Regulus to fits of trembling when he was the same age as this child - hardly seemed to scratch the surface of the boy’s nerve. “And I’ll thank you not to ask such intrusive questions. It is quite impolite” 

“My daddy works here” the boy continued in spite of his scolding, running his fingers along the edge of the golden fountain absent-mindedly. 

Walburga cast her gaze across the Atrium towards the equally shabby-looking cleaning wizard. She briefly wondered if the boy might be his son, bade to wait here until his task was complete. Though he did seem a little too old, she reasoned. But, going by the state of his robes, the child could hardly belong to a higher ranking, better paid member of staff. 

“Ought you not to be with him now?” Walburga found herself asking. The child may be grubby and impertinent, but suppose he was lost? Even she didn’t have the heart to walk away from an unattended child. “This is no place for an unaccompanied child” 

“I suppose so…” the boy stood up on his tiptoes and reached his arm over the golden edge and into the pool. He was just about tall enough to swirl his fingertips into the crystal blue water. “But I wanted to see the fountain and he wouldn’t take me” 

“So you thought it appropriate to steal yourself away to see it, did you?” 

The boy nodded, still swirling his fingers in the shimmering water. He seemed oblivious to the disapproving tone of Walburga’s voice.

Walburga tilted her head up and sniffed in haughty disapproval at the little boy’s behaviour. This was clearly a child who had been allowed to run amok, with no sense of discipline instilled in him by his elders and betters. Never would she have allowed _her_ boys to behave so atrociously in public; running off alone, pestering complete strangers...

_Walburga set down her embroidery hoop in her lap at the sound of the parlour door bursting open._

_“What in Merlin’s name-”_

_Through the door marched her husband, Orion, with a face like thunder and their four -year-old son clutched in his grasp by the scruff of his robes._

_“Orion, what is going on?” Walburga asked, eyeing Sirius’s sulky, scowling face. “Why are you home so early? I’d thought you weren’t due home until teatime”_

_She dreaded the answer which, deep down, she suspected she was about to receive._

_“As did I, Walburga. However, your son saw fit to make a public disgrace of himself today” said Orion sharply, glaring down at Sirius._

_Walburga sighed with frustration._

_Sirius had been drilled that morning about how he was expected to behave during this most special of outings - his very first time accompanying his father on a trip to the Ministry of Magic. The little boy had practically bounced with excitement as his mother had fastened his cloak firmly around his shoulders and warned him to behave himself perfectly whilst he was out, that he was representing both himself, his father, and the family. Sirius had nodded eagerly in agreement in all the right places, but, it seemed that he had ultimately been unable to keep his promises._

_Walburga listened, wide-eyed with shock as Orion recalled how Sirius had stolen himself away into the swarming crowds whilst Orion was distracted by speaking with an acquaintance and, after a brief, urgent search, had been found ten minutes later at the fountain in the Atrium, where he had been reprimanded by an outraged witch who claimed that Sirius had attempted to steal a gold galleon from her cloak pocket. When confronted with these accusations, Sirius had caused a scene by loudly protesting that he didn’t do it, that the witch was a dirty liar - thereby adding the crime of lying to his own already-black record for the day._

_“Sirius Orion Black!” Walburga hissed angrily at her son, rising from her chair to glare down at him. “What in Salazar’s name possessed you to do such a wicked thing?!”_

_Sirius’s sullen grey eyes peaked out from behind his untidy, black mop of hair._

_“Wanted to make a wish in the fountain” he mumbled, scuffing his shoe against the floor sulkily._

_“Nonsense” said Orion, giving the boy a sharp shake by the back of his robes. “There is nothing that can be gained in this life by wishing for it in a fountain - and wasting good gold in the process. You have proven today that you are still far too young to be trusted to behave yourself in public. You shan’t leave this house again until you can prove that you are able to conduct yourself in an orderly manner. Is that clear?”_

_Sirius nodded miserably, frowning down at the floor._

_“Yes, Papa”_

_Walburga recalled how her elder son’s frown seemed to deepen further when he caught sight of her own look of deep disappointment as he was led from the room by his father, bound to remain in his bedroom until supper with his toys confiscated._

“I wanted to make a wish on the fountain but my dad said no” the ginger-haired little boy’s sulky words drew Walburga back out of her memories. The child was leaning his chin against the edge of the fountain, his fingertips still swirling in the water.

“Your father is quite right,” Walburga declared haughtily. “It is quite a silly superstition, believing that one has anything to gain from wishing on a fountain” 

“He said we didn’t have any spare money for wishes” 

Walburga swallowed, awkwardly. 

“I see” 

The child was young - no doubt he didn’t yet have a concept of how inappropriate it was to discuss one’s finances in public. 

“Where is your father?” she asked, averting the conversation to a safer and far more relevant topic. “You ought to return to him” 

Before the boy could reply, an anxious voice echoed across the Atrium, along with the sound of hurried footsteps against the tiled floor. 

“Ron!” 

Walburga glanced up towards the voice to find a wizard, dressed equally as shabby as his son, with matching bright orange hair, running across the hall towards them. 

She fought not to outwardly grimace as the identity of the boy’s father was revealed to her. 

Of course. She should have known. Bright, ginger hair and robes that had likely seen two or three owners before they found their way to him. What could the child possibly be, other than a Weasley? 

“Ron, what have I told you about wandering off?” an out-of-breath Arthur Weasley said as he reached his son. So fixated was he on the relief of finding his lost boy that, at first, he seemed not to notice Walburga at all.

“I only wanted to see the fountain” the boy, Ron, mumbled. 

What a common name, Walburga thought to herself. Not an ounce of class.

“That doesn’t mean you can just sneak away!” the father’s voice was serious, urging, but nowhere near as sharp as Orion’s had been when he’d chastised Sirius for the same crime. “If you’re going to come to work with me, you need to stay with me. You’re far too young to be on your own, it’s not safe” 

“But I wasn’t _on_ my own,” Ron argued, pointing up at Walburga. “I was with this lady” 

Mr Weasley finally looked up at the witch standing beside his son, taking notice of her for the first time. His eyes darkened with recognition.

Walburga gave a silent, stiff nod in greeting. She kept her expression plain, her body angled slightly away, indicating she had no wish to be seen associating with the pair of them, even in this sparsely-populated place.

“Come away now, Ron” Mr Weasley said firmly, pulling his son sharply towards him - and away from Walburga. “We’ll be late” 

The wizard turned away without another word and led his son back across the hall, keeping a firm, protective grip on the boy’s arm. 

“Bye!” the boy called to Walburga with a smile as he was pulled away. 

Walburga did not reply. She shook her head and gave a little sigh. Trust Lucretia to spend all those years refusing to marry, only to then attach herself, and the family by association, to the Prewetts, of all people. And worse - to the Weasleys, by marriage. A more disgraceful excuse for a pure-blooded family there never was (besides the Potters, perhaps). Her cousin had much to answer for.

At long last, the quiet of the Atrium was abruptly punctured by the distinct stomp, clank of Arcturus Black making his way towards the fountain from the Floo fireplace hall. 

“Good morning” Walburga offered by way of polite, obligatory greeting. 

“Yes, yes” Arcturus grunted dismissively as he waved his free hand in the air, gesturing for her to follow him towards the security checkpoint. The patriarch was clearly in no mood to waste time on pleasantries today. 

Conveniently, neither was his daughter-in-law.

“How is the boy?” Arcturus asked after several moments of walking in stiff silence. 

“Resting” said Walburga. “He was quite worn out after your visit yesterday afternoon”

Sirius had slept through most of the rest of the previous day following his stormy encounter with his grandfather, waking only to eat a light dinner of chicken and vegetable soup and bread. He had needed far less persuading to eat than he had that morning. In fact, he kept up an uncharacteristic silence throughout, hardly so much as looking at his mother for the duration of her visit. And when offered another dose of sleeping draught after Walburga’s observation that he still looked rather peaky, he further surprised his mother by accepting without argument. 

There had once been a time when Walburga would have enjoyed such complacency in her so-often-difficult son. But in reality, when faced with the sight of her headstrong boy curled into the bed covers as though he should like them to swallow him up, she’d found herself feeling rather displeased.

It didn’t seem right.

“I should think so too,” Arcturus huffed in reply. “Such inane insolence - and after all that time locked up! I tell you, if three years in Azkaban isn’t enough to curb that boy’s cheek, then God only knows what more it would take” 

Walburga wondered, as they headed towards the security checkpoint, what her father-in-law’s reaction might have been if he had seen for himself what the full effects of his onslaught had been on his grandson.

Most likely that it was too little, too late, she remarked to herself wryly, as she withdrew her wand in preparation for the odious inspection process. 

* * *

Millicent Bagnold was not a patient woman by nature. From the way her teeth would click with irritation when her morning coffee was delayed in arriving at her desk on her arrival to cancelling meetings if kept waiting for more than five minutes after the agreed start time, she was infamous throughout the Ministry as a witch who everyone knew ought not to be kept waiting, lest they suffered the consequences. 

And so, as the days ticked by with still no long-overdue news of Sirius Black’s death, Millicent’s frustration began to mount. With each passing day that she was presented with a letter from the Black household, frustratingly-lacking in detail, her tolerance for minor irritations grew shorter. 

She wanted the Sirius Black case done, finished and closed. For good, this time.

She could clearly recall how, three years ago, in those early sunrise days of peace after the war, she was presented with the news of Black’s crimes and capture. Those were chaotic days for the Ministry, the metaphorical feet of the swan paddling away furiously as the stragglers were rounded up - followers left behind in the wake of the fall of He Who Must Not Be Named, scrambling for safety as the Aurors relentlessly pursued them - whilst all the while maintaining the graceful illusion of long-awaited contentment that the wider Wizarding community had craved for so long.

Millicent Bagnold, as Minister for Magic, had done what she’d needed to do to provide what her people badly needed. As a newly-appointed Minister for Magic, and with her sex already putting her at a disadvantage in terms of ensuring her employees’ loyalty, she had grasped the Minotaur by the horns and had done what she’d needed to do to end the war and deal with the criminals terrorising her people. Some of her moves may have been controversial, but once the desired outcome was achieved, who would begrudge her? 

Amongst other moves, she had granted Crouch and his Department the powers to fast-track captured Dark wizards and witches through the judicial process which would inevitably lead them on a one-way journey to an Azkaban cell. The public were weary from years of fear and loss. They did not want dragged-out trials, ghastly news headlines or the twisted faces of cackling Death Eaters on the front of their morning papers for weeks on end, reminding them of the dark days of the past. They wanted the simple, happy news of one more criminal safely removed from their streets and locked away, out of sight and out of mind. 

And that was precisely what they had gotten with the case of Sirius Black. A dangerous Dark wizard safely caught and locked away, out of sight and out of mind. A swift and successful victory for the Ministry.

And so, when faced with the unexpected and unwelcome news from Arcturus and Walburga Black that Sirius had, against all odds, recovered from his supposedly-fatal illness, Millicent Bagnold could not have been less pleased if she’d tried. 

“What in Merlin’s name do you mean, _‘he has recovered?!’_ ” 

Bartemius Crouch’s voice practically trembled with anger as he spat his words across the desk from where he stood beside the seated Minister. 

“Have you got cloth in your ears, Crouch?” Arcturus barked irritably. “The boy has recovered from his illness. The illness which your staff at Azkaban misdiagnosed him with in the first place” 

“Nonsense!” Crouch, who had turned an ugly shade of beet-red, eyed the older man with distaste. “Sirius Black had fading fever. Of that we were completely certain!”

“Your son’s symptoms were indeed very conclusive, Mrs Black” said Bagnold, her eyes staring directly at Walburga. The two women sat, their eyes fixated on each other with equal, silent suspicion, filtering out the angry spats of the wizards beside them. 

“My son’s symptoms were indeed remarkably similar to fading fever. I was even fooled myself when I visited him in Azkaban” Walburga’s voice was cool and composed. For a witch renowned by those who knew her for her short temper, she did in fact possess a remarkable ability to restrain herself when the need was greatest. 

And the need could never be more great than it was at the present moment. 

“But your people were, ultimately, wrong” 

The small but clear note of accusation in Walburga’s words sparked a small flicker of anger in the Minister’s golden eyes. 

“Do explain” Millicent prompted icily, folding her hands atop her desk and sitting back slightly with an air of casual authority. 

Mrs Black sat up a little straighter in her seat - a feat Millicent wouldn’t have thought possible until witnessed.

“When my son arrived home, he was in a most dreadful state,” said Walburga. “Naturally, I sought to make him more comfortable for whatever time he had left. However, after a day or so, it became evident that his illness was not… progressing, as we’d expected. In fact, his condition began to improve” 

“You attempted to _heal_ him?” 

Crouch’s rude, accusing tone earned him an icy glare from Walburga. 

“Don’t be a fool, Crouch” Arcturus snapped. “Fading fever is incurable, any imbecile knows that” 

Crouch’s moustache twitched with anger. 

“Then why, pray tell, is he not dead?” he demanded, folding his arms. 

“Because my son did not _have_ fading fever,” said Walburga, looking back across the desk at Bagnold. The silver gaze clashed accusingly with the gold. 

“My son’s affliction was a simple case of the common influenza, nothing more”

A heavy silence passed over the room as the two Ministry officials absorbed this claim. 

“Influenza? What the devil are you on about?” Crouch’s face burned with angry disbelief, in harsh comparison to Bagnold’s stony, unphased stare. 

“An illness which displays very similar symptoms to fading fever, it is true. And indeed, if left untreated, it can be fatal” said Walburga before leaning forward to fix Crouch with a hard, accusing look. “But when provided with basic, symptomatic treatment? Why, even a Muggle could make a full recovery” 

Millicent felt a stab of irritation at the way Mrs Black uttered the word “Muggle”, her disgust at the mere feeling of the word on her tongue clearly evident. Years spent fighting her way through the ranks within the Ministry had long-since taught Millicent to maintain a dignified stiff upper lip when confronted with insulting remarks from “pure-blooded” witches and wizards (and indeed some fellow half-bloods) about non-magic folk - who happened to make up the majority of the maternal side of her own family - but despite her outward reaction remaining neutral, the sting she felt within never truly went away. 

She had seen this country through a civil war, and still scarcely a day when by that she was not spared such bigoted words from reaching her ears. What had it all been for? 

“Symptomatic treatment?” Crouch’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at Walburga. “Hogwash. You were _trying_ to heal him, I know it”

Walburga fixed the wizard with a withering look.

“And just why would I be attempting to do such a thing, when _your_ Department had led me to believe that my son’s condition was terminal? I provided palliative care, nothing more” 

Crouch scoffed. 

“I don’t believe a word of it,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you see, Minister? I warned you that something like this would happen!” 

Millicent turned to face the wizard standing beside her. 

“I’ll thank you to keep your input professional, Mr Crouch, or else you may wait outside for the remainder of this meeting” she said sharply, in a tone that left no room for doubt as to her power to make real her threats.

Crouch’s face flushed indignantly, but he did not offer any argument. As strong as his feelings towards this case may be, he knew perfectly well that his reach only went so far, even as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. One could only push the Minister for Magic so far, particularly when one was in line to succeed her. 

He clenched his jaw and folded his arms, glaring at the wall as he sucked in a deep, hard breath. 

Bagnold, satisfied, turned back to face Walburga. 

“So. As I understand it, Sirius Black is very much alive?” 

“Yes” Walburga’s face remained a blank slate, devoid of all the usual, happy emotions one might expect to see upon the face of a mother whose son had evaded an untimely death. 

“And he is most certainly not in danger of dying?” 

“No. He is not” 

“I see” 

The two witches sat in silence for a moment, their eyes locked in mutual, unblinking coldness, as though each were waiting for the other to blink first. 

Millicent looked away. 

“Then he will be returned to Azkaban to serve out the remainder of his sentence” she said briskly, reaching into her robe pocket for her wand. She tapped the top-most drawer of her desk and it slid open, allowing a fresh roll of parchment to fly out and spread itself flat in front of her. 

“Crouch, will you make the appropriate arrangements with the Aurors?” she asked, glancing up at the man beside her who smirked with delight as he nodded. 

“As you wish, Minister” he said smugly and began to make his way around the desk. 

“And precisely what sentence would that be, Minister?” 

The calm and composed voice of Walburga Black halted Crouch in his tracks before he had made it halfway to the door. 

Millicent’s quill tip hovered an inch above the parchment, poised to write the first word of her letter to alert the Aurors stationed at Azkaban. 

She looked across the desk to find Walburga Black staring at her with a look of polite curiosity. In that moment, she felt she would have preferred for the witch to shout and wail in a fit of desperate emotion, begging her not to take her newly-reclaimed son away from her again and threatening all who might dare to. 

But the witch who sat across from her was calm - dangerously calm. That in itself was more concerning than any angry threat could be. 

“I beg your pardon?” Millicent replied, setting down her quill. 

“The sentence to which you refer does not exist” said Arcturus, his gruff voice low with clear displeasure. “My grandson was never formally given one”

Bagnold stiffened as her gaze flitted towards the scowling old wizard, her instincts on high alert, like a deer catching a whiff of danger in its midst. 

“I fail to understand how one might be returned to prison to serve out “the remainder” of a sentence which was never passed” Walburga added. 

Millicent folded her hands neatly atop her desk and leaned forward to fix Walburga with a hard stare. 

“Sirius Black is a dangerous criminal, Mrs Black” she said in a quiet, firm voice. “Surely you understand that I would not entertain the idea of allowing someone like that to go free on the whim of a mere formality?”

“Oh no, Minister, of course not” said Walburga. “I would, however, assume you would wish to see this ‘mere formality’ corrected” 

“What the blazes-?” 

Millicent held up a hand to silence Crouch, not once taking her eyes off of the witch opposite her. 

“Do explain,” she offered, sleekly. 

“I’d have thought our meaning was obvious,” said Arcturus, drumming his fingers against the handle of his cane. “My grandson was never afforded the proper trial for the accusations against him, as was his right. And now, we demand that he is given one” 

There was a dark shot of laughter from Crouch, who had by now marched back round the desk to face the Blacks head-on. 

“What utter rubbish!” Crouch spat. “Sirius Black slaughtered thirteen people! He was dragged away from the carnage he created, cackling like a madman! There is no need for a trial to know that he needs to be locked up and the key destroyed, no matter whom his family might be!” 

A gruff chortle came from Arcturus. His grey eyes glinted menacingly.

“Of course _you_ of all people would know about locking up one’s family, wouldn’t you, Crouch?” 

“Silence!” 

At the Minister’s sharp order, the room immediately fell silent. 

Crouch paused, open-mouthed in preparation to shoot back a reply to Arcturus’s provocative remark. 

Millicent looked sternly from Arcturus to Walburga.

“You will forgive me for my colleague’s outburst” she said, primly. “But, as Mr Crouch has said, Sirius Black _is_ responsible for the deaths of thirteen people. There were many Muggle eye-witnesses to the fact. Surely you can understand how absurd the notion sounds - suggesting that we arrange a full-scale trial simply for the sake of officially confirming what we already know?” 

“But that is precisely the point I am trying to make, Minister” said Walburga. “The situation is… not as simple as it may first appear” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“We have reason to believe that there is sufficient cause to doubt whether Sirius is truly guilty or not” 

A stunned silence fell across the room. Not even Crouch, who stood with his eyes wide in disbelief, had a remark to offer Walburga’s shocking statement.

“You believe that your son did not commit the murders of which he is accused?” Bagnold finally asked, leaning forward slightly in her seat. 

“I don’t know what best to believe for myself, Minister,” said Walburga with a shake of her head. “But, since his recovery, Sirius has recounted to us his version of events that night. He has offered new information”

“And what, pray tell, would this new information be, precisely?” Millicent asked.

The Blacks paused. Walburga’s eyes flitted sideways for a moment towards Arcturus, as though silently confirming with one another that they were indeed prepared to go down this route. 

Walburga turned her attention back to Millicent. 

“Sirius claims that Peter Pettigrew, the wizard who was supposedly killed that night, is still alive” 

A loud scoff from Crouch dampened the initial shock Mrs Black’s words inflicted on the Minister. 

“What rubbish!” he spat. “What absolute lies. Pettigrew was torn apart by the blast your son created!”

“The boy claims that it was Pettigrew who cast that spell, not him” said Arcturus. 

“What proof have you of the truth of these claims, Arcturus?” Millicent asked, fixing the aged wizard with a stern look. These were serious suggestions. 

Arcturus’s jaw clenched. 

“Well- at this present time, considering how recent this discovery is-”

“Out with it, man” Crouch barked, scowling at Arcturus. He did not see the irritated glare shot at him from the Minister beside him. “Can you _prove_ these ridiculous claims, or not?” 

There was anger burning in Arcturus’s iron eyes. A look which Millicent was surprised she had never seen before, considering the less-than-pleasant mood the Black patriarch was so often in whilst at the Ministry.

“No” Arcturus grunted, looking away. “As of this precise moment, we cannot prove Sirius’s claims”

“I knew it” Crouch smirked triumphantly. “Empty lies. Complete and utter rubbish. But then what would you expect from a psychotic mass-murderer like Sirius Black?” 

“I’ll thank you not to make personal remarks about my son, Mr Crouch” said Walburga, narrowing her eyes dangerously up at Crouch. 

“And I’ll thank you not to waste the Ministry’s time with this ludicrous talk of trials for known criminals and dead wizards walking” 

Sensing an argument threatening to erupt between the two sides, the Minister cleared her throat loudly - a gesture which alone informed all parties that the conversation was very much back in her control. 

“Just so we’re all of the same understanding,” she said calmly, determined to quell the rising tempers by way of example. “You are requesting that Sirius Black be granted a formal trial for his accused crimes, on the basis that he claims it was Peter Pettigrew - not himself - who caused the explosion on the street that day which killed twelve muggles. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Minister” Walburga replied with a prim nod. 

Millicent arched an eyebrow. 

“And, may I ask, what evidence it is that you wish to submit to support this claim? After all, the evidence against your son is rather overwhelming, Mrs Black. Surely you appreciate this?” 

Walburga stiffened slightly in her seat. 

“I understand how the situation appears, Minister. You will remember, of course, that we ourselves believed in Sirius’s guilt these last three years, as well. The evidence against him was, as you say, overwhelming” 

“But as Arcturus said, you don’t currently have any evidence to offer in his favour” 

“No, we do not,” Walburga admitted. “But such things can be acquired. However, it would require your assistance” 

“My assistance?” Millicent tilted her head curiously. 

“The Ministry’s assistance. You see - Peter Pettigrew is alive-”

“So your son claims” Crouch interjected, his face twisted with disbelief. 

“Yes, he does” Walburga shot back with a glare. “And so, of course the most vital way of proving my son’s innocence would be to find him”

“Mrs Black” Millicent sighed and leaned back in her chair slightly, drumming her fingers against her desk. “Surely you must understand how absurd this suggestion is. I simply do not have the spare Aurors to send traipsing up and down the country looking for one man whom is widely believed to be dead”

“But it is not a man you would be searching for, Minister” said Walburga. 

“Oh? And what would it be?”

“A rat” 

A stillness fell upon the room. A silence so still that one might have been able to hear the footsteps of a bowtruckle loud and clear, should one have elected to tiptoe across the carpet.

“A _rat?_ ” Crouch practically spluttered with laughter. “Come now, Minister, do end this ridiculous carry-on!” 

“What do you mean?” Millicent pressed on, fearing the answer she knew that such a statement could only lead to. 

“Peter Pettigrew is an unregistered Animagus” 

Millicent would have preferred a few moments to allow this curious information to sink in, but with her Head of Department beside her permanently on the verge of explosion if given half the chance, time was a luxury she could ill-afford. 

“How do you know this?” she asked in a forcibly straight voice.

“Sirius has informed us of the fact. He and the Pettigrew boy were at school together,” said Walburga. “Classmates and - friends” 

There was a catch in Mrs Black’s voice as she prepared to utter the final word. It didn’t take a genius to work out that this was a mother with a deep displeasure of her son’s choice in friends. Millicent knew only the basics of Peter Pettigrew - that he was a half-blood wizard of unremarkable talent. But from what she knew of the Blacks, she was certain that this was not the sort of wizard they would approve of mixing with. 

Nor was it the sort of wizard who could be regarded as having the potential to pull off one of the most challenging feats of magic in the known world. 

“These are all lies, Minister, surely you don’t believe this drivel?” Crouch turned to Millicent, his face flushed with frustration. “Next they’ll be telling us that Black wasn’t the Potters’ Secret Keeper, after all!” 

“He wasn’t, as it goes” 

All eyes turned to Arcturus at his gruffly-spoken statement.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Bagnold. 

“My grandson wasn’t the Potters’ Secret Keeper. It was Pettigrew who betrayed them to the Dark Lord. Sirius was merely a decoy. A ridiculous plan, if you ask-”

“There, you see?!” Crouch waved his hands in the air, exasperated. “Lie upon lie! They will spin all the lies in the world to help that maniac avoid justice, Minister! Surely you don’t truly believe any of this?”

Millicent’s head was swimming. On the surface, these did indeed sound like inane tales, contradicting everything she trusted to be true. And yet- 

The Blacks spoke the truth on one matter, of that much she could be certain - Sirius Black had indeed never had a trial. And with no official investigation, no case in his defence ever brought before the Wizengamont, who could rightly say for certain what was truth and what was lies? 

The room around her was silent, the remaining occupants all fixated on the Minister, awaiting her next move. 

“You are aware, I assume, of just how difficult and dangerous it is for one to succeed in becoming an Animagus?” Bagnold asked, cautiously. 

“Of course” Arcturus barked impatiently, as though the Minister was a fool for even asking. “Any dunce knows that” 

“Then I’m sure you will understand my reluctance to believe how a wizard of Pettigrew’s, shall we say, meagre talents, could ever have been capable of becoming one”

“Are you accusing us of _lying_ , Minister?” Walburga Black’s voice was sharp with warning, her eyes flashing indignantly. 

“No, Mrs Black, I am not accusing _you_ of lying”

“But you accuse my son?”

“Sirius Black was apprehended at the scene of the crime, surrounded by carnage and practically bent double with laughter” said Bagnold, her voice polite, but firm. She held up a silencing hand as Mrs Black opened her mouth to interrupt. “That much is fact, Mrs Black. It cannot be disputed, whatever the precise nature of events which led to that moment. My point is that these are not the actions of what one might regard as being of a stable mental capacity.”

“And you honestly expect us to believe the ravings of a madman trying to save his own skin?” Crouch added, unhelpfully.

“My son is not mad!”

Walburga’s carefully-controlled temper was threatening to blaze at last. She gripped the armrests of her seat as though ready to spring to her feet, her eyes alight with anger at the slanderous remarks.

“Be _quiet_ , Walburga” 

At her father-in-law’s sharp order, Walburga’s head snapped round to glare at him. The two shared a silent, sharp exchange of looks before Mrs Black’s anger simmered down, her tense body relaxing. But the fire still flickered dimly in her gaze. Tempered, for now, but always there, awaiting the right fuel to stoke the flames. 

“Minister-” Arcturus leaned forwards in his seat, fixing his gaze on the witch on the other side of the desk. “That boy has shamelessly dragged my family’s good name through the mud with this whole carry-on” The wizard’s creased face frowned deep with displeasure as he spoke. “Do you really believe that I would entertain the idea of dragging the whole thing up again, reliving the shame of it all, if I didn’t believe there were a shred of truth to be found in what he says?”

Millicent considered. Arcturus Black’s intense dislike of an mention of his disgraced grandson was well known throughout the Ministry. As was his dislike of visits to the Ministry itself. On days when official business as a member of the Wizengamont forced him to attend, all who knew him - who knew of him - knew very well not to not so much as think of the name Sirius Black in his presence. 

And now, here sat that same wizard, alongside his daughter-in-law, attempting to secure Sirius Black a trial in an attempt to prove his innocence. 

“I believe my son, Minister” said Walburga, her voice calm and composed once more. “For three years I have believed he was guilty of the crimes he was accused of. I came to you a week ago requesting that he be sent home to die because I wished to find closure over the whole ghastly business for myself at last. But the fates have seen fit to spare him for now and we must deal with the situation that remains. And with the new information Sirius has revealed since his recovery, I cannot allow my son to be sent blindly back to prison without all of the facts being thoroughly investigated” 

Millicent fought back a smile at the suggestion that her guests were in any position to “allow” the axe which hung over Sirius’s head to fall any which way. She couldn’t help but feel a small niggle of pleasure at the current circumstances she found herself in. Sat before her were two members of one of the oldest and proudest pureblood families - members of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight. A family which, despite its recent misfortunes, was still accustomed to having the upper hand in any situation they found themselves in. 

Except now, this time. The decision as to whether to grant them their wish or not rested solely with Millicent - the half-blood witch whom they both would surely love to see fall, to smirk triumphantly over the crumbling ruins of her career. She would be well within her power and reason to dismiss these bizarre claims and insist on returning Sirius to Azkaban immediately. 

And yet - she could not allow herself the satisfaction of acting solely on the immediate pleasure that such an action might bring her.

“It _would_ be quite the scandal, wouldn’t you say, Minister?” 

Arcturus’s voice, though gritty as ever, was light and casual in such an uncharacteristic manner that it put Millicent instantly on edge. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“The same wizard being sentenced to life in Azkaban twice without a fair trial, I mean. I can hardly see the idea going down well, should such a thing get out” 

“Not when that wizard is Sirius Black” Crouch seethed. “The public has no appetite for fair and just trials where followers of You-Know-Who are concerned” 

“My son never followed him,” Walburga shot back. “He may be rash and reckless by nature but he never conformed to the beliefs that the Dark Lord promoted”

“Unlike the unfortunate offspring of some families” Arcturus’s eyes glinted across at Crouch accusingly. 

Crouch hissed furiously. 

“How dare-!” 

“Enough!” 

The sharp edge of Millicent’s order cut through the thick anger in the room like diamond, silencing the two sides completely. 

“I will not have this matter turned into a petty spat of personal insults” Millicent said firmly. “If you cannot all behave in a professional manner, I will call an end to this case immediately. Do I make myself clear?” 

She turned first to Crouch with a threatening, expectant look. 

“Yes, Minister” said Crouch quietly, through gritted teeth. He wrinkled his nose, his moustache twitching, and glared at the wall to his side. 

Before she could offer the Blacks the same look, Arcturus spoke again. 

“I mean it, Minister,” he said, staring directly at the Minister. “You might have gotten away with throwing people into Azkaban quickly and quietly during the war. But three years have passed, now. Do you really think you could afford to go down that road again?”

Millicent felt her blood cool. Outwardly, she did not react, but inside, her mind swam with the pros and cons of the choice put before her. 

“Would you really do it, Minister?” Walburga added, her voice as smooth as silk. “Would you really condemn a potentially innocent man to a horrible death for the sake of covering up the possibility that the Department of Law Enforcement may have made the gravest of errors the first time around? After all, they wrongly assured you that Sirius was going to die - how can you be certain this wasn’t their first error?”

Crouch glared silently at this swipe against him, but did not retort. A heavy, expectant silence fell across the room.

The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of a low groan from Arcturus as he reached into the inner-pocket of his cloak and pulled out his gold pocket watch. 

“Ah, I hadn’t expected we’d be here this long” he sighed with a shake of his head. “I’m due at St. Mungo’s within the hour” 

“Nothing too serious, I hope?” asked Crouch, his voice laden with sarcasm.

“Oh no, nothing of that sort” Arcturus chuckled in reply. “I’ve a meeting with the Chief Healer. Financial matters. You see, I’d happened to hear of the hospital’s struggles with funding the new Magical Poisonings wing. Naturally, I felt it my duty to offer my assistance. He was most grateful to receive my owl. Pleasant chap. But then, I’m sure I don’t need to tell _you_ that, Minister”

Millicent’s gaze rose sharply to meet Arcturus’s grey eyes peering across the desk at her, glimmering with cunning. 

She felt a knot of annoyed frustration tighten within her and made a mental note to discuss with her husband that evening the perils of accepting charitable donations from a family such as the Blacks.

* * *

Sirius had by now become used to waking up to the feeling of being warm and comfortable. The initial confusion that this once-alien sensation had first brought him had faded away, replaced once again by the long-forgotten memory of wondering if he could afford five more minutes of sleep or if he really did have to contemplate the thought of getting up. 

Except, that was not a choice within his control anymore. His mother had made sure of that. The comfort of the heavy, soft bedding was quickly tarnished as he realised that his mother’s infuriating entrapment spell was back in place, the covers glowing a foreboding shade of green and tightening around him whenever he attempted to remove them.

Sirius loathed the spell with a passion. He had always hated the feeling of being trapped, contained until whomever held the power saw fit to release him. Even this most comfortable of traps was a trap nevertheless - and he wanted out of it. 

He groaned loudly in frustration as his latest attempt to remove the bed covers proved as fruitless as the countless others before it. He flung his head back against the pillows and scowled up at the gaudy, golden chandelier glimmering dimly above him. How long did his mother plan on keeping him confined to this damned bed? 

Sirius’s thoughts wandered away from his current predicament for a moment at the thought of his mother. Where was she? Usually when he drifted awake, the first sight that met his bleary eyes was that of his mother’s stiff, unsmiling face, staring down at him from his bedside in a way which was as unnerving in its intensity as it was in its lack of detectable emotion. 

As pleasant a change as it was to wake up alone, for once, the moment was marred by the more concerning thought that if she wasn’t here, then where was she? And what did her absence mean? She was planning something, surely. 

And here he lay, imprisoned in a cocoon of blankets, completely unable to stop her. It was maddening.

Suddenly, a thought struck him. 

“Kreacher!” 

Sirius’s voice cracked, hoarse from lack of use overnight. His call was not as loud as he’d wished. Was that why the house elf did not answer? Or was the little cretin simply as reluctant to obey Sirius as he always had been?

“Kreacher!” he tried again, louder and more demanding this time.

An all-too-familiar loud CRACK echoed around the room, sending a momentary chill through Sirius as he recalled the countless times that same noise had signalled the beginning of yet another dementor-induced vision. 

Sirius fought back a startled gasp as the house elf from his nightmares appeared as his bedside, baring the same irritated scowl as always. 

“You called, Master Sirius?” the elf growled in a forcibly humble tone. 

Sirius relaxed at the elf’s words - so very different from the usual viscous tirade of insults that the vision of the shrunken creature had always hurled at him in his dreams. 

Real. It’s real. He’s real. Vile, but real.

“Where is she, Kreacher?” Sirius asked in a voice as authoritative as one could manage whilst held forcibly horizontal in bed.

“To which ‘she’ does the young master refer?” Kreacher asked in reply, a clear undertone of mocking evident in his voice. 

“You know who I mean” Sirius snapped. “Tell me where she is. Why isn’t she here?” 

“The Mistress had important business to attend to elsewhere” Kreacher bowed his head, his large ears flopping forwards to hide the hint of a mocking smirk on his face. “If the young master requires her presence, Kreacher is certain she will not mind Kreacher requesting that she return home” 

“No” Sirius felt his face flush with indignation at the elf’s suggestion. “I don’t- I don’t need her. I was just curious. She’s usually here, is all”

“If Master Sirius says so…” 

“So, you mean she’s gone out? As in, actually left the house?” 

“Yes, Master” 

Sirius shifted slightly under the covers. His mother had really gone out and left him here, trapped, for an unknown length of time? 

“When will she be back?”

“Kreacher does not know,” said the elf. “It is not Kreacher’s place to ask. But, as Kreacher says, if Master Sirius requires-”

“I don’t need her!” Sirius was growing frustrated. “I just need to get out of this damned bed”

Kreacher shook his head disapprovingly as Sirius tried and failed, yet again, to free himself from the covers. 

“Mistress would not like Master Sirius to be up and about unsupervised” he said, in the same lecturing tone which Sirius recalled bitterly from many unpleasant incidents from his childhood; chastised by the family servant for pilfering biscuits, for sliding down the staircase bannisters or attempting to climb the suits of armour which he had just lovingly polished.

Of course, the elf had always been sickeningly devoted to Walburga. The pathetic little thing would rather stick pins in his own eyes than willingly disobey her (and nearly had done on several occasions, before being ordered to stop at the last moment). There was no way he would willingly go against her by helping Sirius out of his predicament. 

However, there was still one possible way out that might work…

“Kreacher, undo whatever spell my mother has put on this bed” Sirius ordered. 

Kreacher narrowed his eyes and shook his head, his ears flapping comically. 

“Kreacher should not. The Mistress would not like it. She would want the young master to stay in bed” he said firmly, though his hands twitched awkwardly, giving away just how much effort it took for him to resist Sirius’s order. 

Bingo. 

“Kreacher, you are bound to obey any and all members of the Black family, are you not?” 

The elf’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Yes, Kreacher is…” 

“And did my mother specifically order you not to obey me, Sirius Black?” 

His claw-like, spindly fingers curled into tight fists. 

“No…” Kreacher’s voice was a low growl. He had clearly worked out where this conversation was headed. 

“Then I order you to release me from this bed. Now” 

Kreacher groaned loudly, only too happy to display his full displeasure at being forced to obey this most wretched of Blacks, this lowest of all his masters - but still his master, nevertheless. 

The elf worked his magic, muttering some unintelligible, no doubt vile words all the while. The bed glowed bright green for a moment and, when Sirius next tried to sit up, the covers fell away instantly, releasing him from their hold. 

Sirius let out a loud groan of satisfaction as he stretched his arms above his head. It felt good to be free. 

“Cheers for that” he said to the elf with a satisfied grin. 

“Master Sirius must stay in bed!” Kreacher shrieked with a stamp of his bare foot as Sirius stood up. 

“Yeah, whatever” said Sirius dismissively, focusing all his efforts on preventing his legs from shaking. The last thing he needed was for the elf to think he was as unsteady as he felt and force him back into the bed by magic. “Don’t you have better things to do than annoy me? Don’t you have... silver to polish, or something?” 

He’d had to dig around in the dusty corners of his memory to think of precisely what tedious tasks the family’s house elf had used to occupy himself with in years gone by - before his image was replaced by a face eternally warped in disgust as he hurled out an endless stream of vile insults, night after night, dream after dream…

Sirius forcibly squashed down the memories beginning to bubble up inside his head. He didn’t need to remember that. Not now.

“Mistress ordered Kreacher to keep a close watch on Master Sirius,” said Kreacher determinedly. “To look after him whenever she is gone”

“Well I don’t need or want you following me around all day, so beat it” 

“Master Sirius cannot be trusted unsupervised!” the elf protested with a scowl. “Kreacher remembers, oh yes he does. Kreacher remembers what trouble Master Sirius always was, before he abandoned his poor family. Oh, my poor Mistress. The shame that the blood traitor-”

“Don’t call me that” Sirius snapped coldly, glaring down at the elf. He didn’t want to get into this fight now. It was too early. 

Wasn’t it? 

“What time is it?”

The pair shared a mutual look of distaste before Kreacher submitted to answering his master’s question. 

“It is half-past nine in the morning,” he mumbled. 

Not early by some people’s standards, but Sirius had never been one for early risings. Still, the time meant there was one solid method of getting rid of the elf, at least.

“Fix me some breakfast then, if you’re that keen to look after me” 

Kreacher gave a silent, frowning nod and began to shuffle his way towards the door. 

“And none of that porridge slop, this time” Sirius called, grimacing at the thought of the disgusting stuff. “Make me a decent fry-up. It’s about time I had some proper food”

The elf’s teeth clenched at the torturous obligation to obey his young master’s commands, but he grunted out a low “Yes, Master” before departing, nevertheless. 

Free of the house elf’s company at last, Sirius breathed a heavy sigh, finally allowing himself to sink down onto the side of the bed for a moment to rest his aching legs. It had been a long time since he’d had to stand for any length of time, or indeed since he’d been strong enough to stand at all. But he’d rather endure another ten bowls of the dreaded porridge before he’d allow his weakened legs to tremble and give way in front of the house elf.

Several deep breaths later, Sirius had regained enough strength to stand again. Days spent staring at the same four, emerald-green walls had driven him to longing to look at anything beside them.

He slowly walked across the room to the tall window and pulled back the heavy curtains, which had been kept tightly closed since he had first awoken. His mother had always preferred the curtains of Grimmauld Place to be kept closed. Heaven forbid she should glance a passing Muggle or two through the glass. 

Sirius squinted at the bright morning sunshine that greeted him through the window. Had daylight always been this startlingly bright?

 _Of course not, you idiot,_ he scoffed to himself _. You’ve just forgotten what it looked like._

On the street below, just visible through the barren tree branches, life went on. An occasional car passed by. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. And in the grassy square at the centre of Grimmauld Place, a pair of Muggle children played. Two small boys. 

Sirius turned away from the window. He suddenly felt himself itching to get out of this room.

He walked over to the wardrobe against the opposite wall and squashed down the memories of the many times he had hidden himself away inside it as a child which began to drift towards the surface as he approached. 

The wardrobes in the guest rooms of Number Twelve were usually good for some spare clothes, left behind by the many relatives who saw fit to come and go every other week and leave behind various items in their preferred bedroom, as though marking their territory against the next visitor who might think of claiming their favourite room for themselves.

This time, however, the wardrobe offered nothing but a deep green dressing gown. 

Sirius sighed. It would have to do. 

He shrugged on the robe, trying his best to ignore just how swamped his thin frame felt in the heavy material, and headed for the door. 

Years had passed by, a war had been and gone, and still Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place had remained unchanged. A fixed point, never yielding to the pressure of change that time brought with it. As Sirius walked along the corridor, lit only by dim candlelight, he felt as though it could only have been a day since he was last here. The same grim, old-fashioned wallpaper, the same ugly golden candle holders - the same scowling portraits glaring down at him disapprovingly from their gilded frames. 

Sirius tried his best to ignore the murmurings coming from the canvases mounted on the walls either side of him. He walked on, his head held high as his ancestors gossiped around him. 

“I say, is it truly him?”

“It appears so… I still can’t believe it, can you? Bringing him back to this house after all he did. What is she thinking?”

“An insane mass murderer, they say. The shame of it”

“I wasn’t surprised of course. He was always trouble, that one. Right from when he was small. A rotten apple if ever there was one”

“Really, Eduardus-”

“You would deny it, Carina? Or are you forgetting the time that little scamp lost control of his magic in a fit of temper and nearly set fire to your own canvas?” 

“Will you all just shut it?!” 

At Sirius’s outburst, the portraits fell silent, their painted faces contorted with shocked disapproval. 

“Finally” Sirius sighed in relief and continued on. 

That was another thing he had forgotten about Grimmauld Place - how one was never truly alone in the house. Even if all other living occupants were out, the dead were always there, ready and only too keen to share their unwelcome opinions.

Sirius finally reached the landing and found himself automatically heading up the stairs instead of down, almost as if on auto-pilot. Deep down he knew precisely where his feet were taking him. It was muscle memory, a journey he was programmed to take. How many thousands of times had he taken this journey; dragging his feet sullenly up the stairs after being ordered up to bed too early for his liking, hastily scampering up them in an attempt to outrun inevitable capture and punishment, storming up them as loudly as possible in protest after yet another blazing row with his mother. 

By the time Sirius had arrived in front of his bedroom door, his head was swimming with so many memories all jumbled together into one that he scarcely had enough room inside his head to be surprised that the bedroom still existed at all. He had half-expected that his mother would have blasted the room away completely at the earliest opportunity, erasing all evidence of his shameful existence once and for all. 

But here it was - one of two identical doors facing each other at the end of the corridor, the brass nameplate with _“Sirius”_ engraved on it still intact, if a little dusty. 

Sirius reached out a shaking hand and turned the handle, surprised to find it unlocked, and entered. 

He was careful to keep his eyes firmly away from the opposite door before he entered.

His childhood bedroom was curiously dusty. Curious because such an amount of dust could only settle in a space that was left completely undisturbed. Since early childhood, Sirius had always been famously untidy, forever being scolded for leaving his room in a messy state and threatened with no sweets until he’d tidied it. He’d always assumed that his mother would have been only too pleased to finally sweep away all of his belongings once he;d left home, free from his mess once and for all at last. 

And yet, to Sirius’s amazement, almost everything he’d left behind had been left completely as he had left it. His books were all still lined up on the shelf beside his desk, the top drawer of his dresser was still open from when he had hastily dug through the nearly-folded shirts within to find the velvet pouch of pocket money which he’d kept buried at the back, hidden away from any intruders who might see fit to confiscate it as punishment for whatever it was he’d done wrong most recently.

Only two things in the room had been noticeably altered; the window he had left ajar after climbing through had been closed, and the bedcovers which he’d always left in an untidy tangle had been smoothed out and made ready for him, as though he had been expected home the next day. 

Sirius glanced around at the walls, laden with the Gryffindor banners and Muggle posters he’d covered them with in a burst of determined rebellion during his school years. He reached out to touch the scarlet-and-gold Quidditch banner on the wall next to him, dislodging a layer of dust as he did so. It had once hung from the Quidditch stands at Hogwarts. Sirius, in a burst of sudden inspiration, had stolen it specifically for the purpose of decorating his bedroom, knowing full well how little it would be appreciated by his Slytherin family.

He looked at the glossy motorcycle photos, smiling at the memory of how they had been the product of a burst of mischief he’d felt one afternoon after hearing his mother complain loudly about the noise of “those hellish contraptions” as one went roaring past the house. Sirius had slipped out of the house not an hour later, blown all of his meagre stash of Muggle money on as many motoring magazines as he could find from the nearby newsagent’s shop and had spent the rest of the day cutting out every motorcycle photo he could find and plastering them all over his bedroom walls. 

The explosion of anger his mother had erupted into when she saw what he’d done was fierce, but it was nothing compared to her reaction to Sirius’s next move. 

In hindsight, the posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls he’d covered the remaining wall space with was a cheap move, Sirius reasoned to himself as he smirked in amusement at the girls in the photos. Even at the time, he hadn’t particularly enjoyed their presence. He hadn’t even liked the posters. Their presence was purely to make a statement, to entice an argument - and they hadn’t even done that. His mother had gone pale with shock at the sight of the posters, had dealt him a cold look of utter disappointment and distaste, and had left without a word. 

Sirius’s smile faded as he remembered the way his mother had looked at him that day. He had wanted a reaction, for her to scream at him so that he could scream back. What he’d gotten was a thousand times worse.

And now, thanks to his own permanent sticking charm, from that day on he was left with the constant reminder of the sickening feeling he’d felt that day every time he caught sight of one of the crude posters, the girls’ attempting-seductive smiles seeming more like mocking sneers.

The low ebb that the memory of the posters had set Sirius on only deepened when he caught sight of one tiny photograph stuck to the wall beside his desk. A wizarding photograph, frayed at the edges from rough handling. The four teenage boys within it grinned out at Sirius from across the room. 

He was drawn to it by an almost magnetic pull, in spite of the horrible, sinking feeling which filled the pit of his stomach the closer he got to it. 

Sirius peered into the photograph, which had been taken on the same afternoon as their final OWL exam. There he stood, fifteen years old and smirking triumphantly, knowing full well that he had soared through the Charms paper, with his arm slung across Peter’s shoulder.

Sirius felt sick as he stared at the plump, watery-eyed face of his former friend, grinning up at Sirius with a pathetic adoration that Sirius had always found slightly odd. The rat who had destroyed everything good in his life. But the anger he felt was quickly overcome with the enormous, sickening sense of guilt which washed over him like a bucket of ice water as he looked at the boy who’s shoulder his other arm was slung over, sandwiched between himself and a tired-but-smiling Remus. The centre of the shot and the centre of their pack. 

James. 

Sirius wanted to look away. He wanted to turn around and walk out of the room, to lock the door and never return. The photograph was too painful to want to look at. But try as he might, he couldn’t look away. He didn’t deserve to look away. His eyes were locked onto the happy scene preserved on the piece of paper, forcing him to feel every ounce of it’s accusing weight pressing down upon him.

Seeing James’s face again, laughing behind his glasses, triggered something within Sirius that simply talking about the past with his mother and grandfather had not done. It brought back, in startling vividness, every feeling that he had forced himself to keep locked away tight inside him during his years in Azkaban. So intense was the belief of his own innocence that he’d had to force himself to keep constantly in the forefront in his mind so as to protect himself from the dementors that he had forgotten the real truth of the matter. 

James Potter was dead because of him. 

Sirius stood frozen to the spot, hypnotised by the photograph until a familiar sound from downstairs thrust him back into the present. The loud whoosh of flames erupting from the Floo fireplace which signalled an arrival. The faint sound of two familiar voices and the tapping of a cane assured him of precisely who the Floo had returned to the house. 

“Shit” Sirius mumbled to himself. 

He highly doubted that his mother would be pleased to find him out of bed. In times gone by, what did or didn’t please his mother would have been of little concern to him. But at the thought of being put back under the dreaded blanket entrapment spell for his escapade, Sirius decided it was probably best to sneak back down to the Emerald Room before she discovered him snooping around his old bedroom. 

He kept his footsteps light and silent as he made his way out of the room and breathed a sigh of relief as he managed to shut the door behind him with barely a sound. However, he made it barely two steps back down the corridor before a creaking noise echoed around him as he stepped on the notorious single loose floorboard. It wasn’t particularly loud, but nothing was ever too quiet to be missed by Walburga Black’s razor-sharp hearing.

“Sirius Orion! Come down here at once!” 

“Damn” 

Sirius could have kicked himself. How many times had he crept down this corridor in the dead of night as a child, never once forgetting to avoid that particular floorboard? It seemed there were still plenty of things about Grimmauld Place which remained buried inside his memory, waiting to be unearthed. 

Sirius arrived in the drawing room to find his mother and grandfather stood in front of the fireplace, expectantly waiting for him. Sirius shared a mutual look of displeasure with Arcturus, who’s face immediately creased into a frown when his grandson failed to offer the appropriate respectful greeting upon noticing him. 

“Sirius Orion, what are you doing out of bed?” asked Walburga. 

She stood with her arms folded disapprovingly. 

Sirius shrugged from where he stood in the doorway, avoiding his mother’s gaze. 

“Got tired of lying around, fancied a walk” 

“I’ll have the elf give himself a good thrashing for this” Walburga sighed with annoyance. 

Sirius looked up at her. 

“How did you-?”

“Well how _else_ would you have possibly undone my spell? You’d hardly have managed it unaided, considering you haven’t a wand” 

Sirius looked away and frowned in response to his mother’s condescending tone. 

“Come here, boy” Arcturus snapped, tapping the ground before him with his cane. “It’s no use loitering in the doorway - you aren’t going anywhere, I assure you” 

Sirius bit back a curt reply and obediently, if slowly, made his way to fill the spot his grandfather had gestured to. It was no use trying to disobey. He wouldn’t have made it two steps away from the room before Arcturus would drag him back with magic. 

And as his mother had so helpfully reminded him, it wasn’t as if he had a wand to fight back with. 

Standing before the pair, both dressed in their fine, smart clothes, Sirius felt annoyingly under-dressed in his pyjamas and oversized dressing gown. He stared down at the floor, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. 

What he expected was a barked order from his grandfather to stand up straight. But what he got was a hand which grasped his chin in it’s slender fingers and tilted his head upward. To his annoyance, he followed the hand’s guidance, his body remembering from muscle memory how this routine always went. 

“You ought to have stayed in bed” said his mother as she tilted his head this way and that, her critical eyes wandering over his features. “You still look rather peaked”

“I’m fine” Sirius attempting to wriggle himself free from her grasp. Walburga, not yet through with her inspection, only tightened her hold. 

“He needs a proper haircut. The boy looks like a damned street mutt that’s been dragged through a bush backwards”

And there it was. Arcturus Black, never one to miss out on offering his two knuts. Sirius wondered to himself if his grandfather had any inkling as to just how accurate his description of him was.

“And wipe that smirk off your face” 

Sirius obeyed, unaware that his thoughts had leaked through to his face. It wouldn’t do to rattle up the old man too much just yet. The day was young, after all. 

Arcturus, however, was not placated.

“I don’t see what you have to be smirking about, what with all the trouble you’ve caused” 

Sirius sighed. 

“Yeah, I’m a hopeless cause, as you so kindly keep reminding me” 

“I did not say that” 

Sirius looked up at his grandfather. 

“You what?” 

“We have some news, Sirius,” said Walburga, jumping in before her father-in-law could use Sirius’s crude manners as an excuse to launch into a tirade. “Sit” 

She gestured to the sofa behind Sirius. 

Sirius didn’t move. He looked from his mother to his grandfather, his guard up at this sudden unexpected turn of events. What news? 

“Do as your mother says,” said Arcturus sternly, tapping his cane on the floor. “Sit down” 

Again, Sirius stood firm, refusing to obey on principle.

Arcturus’s grip on his cane tightened visibly.

“Don’t make me tell you again, boy”

At last, Sirius gritted his teeth and slowly sank down onto the sofa, clenching his fists tightly inside the pockets of his dressing gown. 

Arcturus and Walburga both remained standing. The disadvantage the differing levels put between them and him immediately set Sirius on edge. 

“Now,” began Walburga, her voice noticeably more pleasant now that Sirius had obeyed. “Your grandfather and I have been to the Ministry-” 

“And there was me thinking you’d gotten all dressed up for a trip down Diagon Alley” 

“Do not interrupt!” 

Sirius fought to keep a straight face at the way his grandfather shook with anger at this most minor of infringements. 

“Alright, alright, sorry” He threw up his hands in surrender. 

“As I was saying,” Walburga fixed Sirius with a piercing look before she resumed. “We have been to the Ministry this morning for a meeting about your… circumstances”

“My circumstances?” 

“Yes. Naturally, your recovery was not the outcome that the Ministry expected from our previous arrangement”

Sirius’s first instinct was to offer a remark about how his surviving a supposedly fatal illness was indeed a bit of a stray from the intended plan, but at the sight of his grandfather, who looked as though he might explode if provoked any further, he restrained himself. 

“We’ve discussed the situation with the Minister and have agreed on the best way forward” 

Sirius snorted. 

“Yeah, of course you did” he murmured, barely loud enough to hear. 

“What was that, boy?” Arcturus raised a thick, silver eyebrow up at his grandson. 

“I hardly believe that you and the Minister ‘agreed’ on anything” Sirius replied. He leaned back against the sofa, giving off an air of casual boredom. “Go on then - how much gold did you throw at her? Which family member’s career did you threaten to ruin?”

“Don’t be silly, Sirius” Walburga dismissed her son’s questions with a slight smirk. “No one’s career is going to be ruined” 

“Not by my doing, anyway” Arcturus muttered with a huff. “Although, since you asked, the price was twenty-two thousand galleons” 

Sirius sat up straighter. 

“What?” 

“Don’t talk so crudely, Sirius” 

“Twenty-two thousand galleons for what?!” Sirius ignored his mother’s scolding, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the now-smirking Arcturus. 

“Your bail, of course” said the wizard. “The price of your freedom from Azkaban until the day of your trial” 

Sirius’s heart sank. 

“My… trial?” 

“Yes, Sirius, your trial” Arcturus spoke slowly, as though to an ignorant child.

For once, Sirius was too stunned to be irked by his grandfather’s patronising manner. 

“You will be held under house arrest in this house until the day of the trial. Of course, the usual procedure would have you returned to Azkaban until then, but given that you were never afforded one in the first place, the Minister was at a, shall we say, disadvantage” 

“I must say, I am not pleased with the security spells being placed around the house” Walburga frowned and shook her head in disapproval. She folded her arms across her chest. “It seems far too intrusive. I don’t want those Ministry mules nosing in on who comes in and out of the house, interfering in our private business”

“What were you expecting? That they would allow him to go strolling about the neighbourhood unchecked?” Arcturus flashed his daughter-in-law an irritated look. “I’m not best pleased with it either but it is a cross we must bear for the sake of the greater plan”

“They ought not to be allowed to dictate who comes in and out of my house! It is unseemly”

“Merlin's beard, woman! I’ve secured the trial you wanted, I’ve ensured that the boy is kept here with you until that day arrives - both at great personal expense, might I add. The least you can do is put up with a bit of tightened security! And might I remind you just whose house this-”

“No” 

The softness with which Sirius spoke was far more startling than if he had screamed it from the top of his lungs. After all, the latter would be far more expected of him.

Arcturus and Walburga ceased their squabbling and looked down to where Sirius sat, hunched over and frowning, staring into the hearth between the pair. The image of James, laughing beside him in the photograph, played over and over again before his eyes on a never ending loop.

“What did you say?” Arcturus asked in a deadly calm voice. He took a step forward to stand over his grandson and peered down at him with his cold, steely eyes.

“I said no,” Sirius raised his eyes to meet his grandfather’s. “I don’t want a trial” 

A heavy, foreboding silence filled the room as Sirius and Walburga awaited Arcturus’s response to his grandson’s outrageous statement. 

Walburga had gone rigid with shock. She stared down at her son in disbelief, seemingly, for once, at a loss for words.

Arcturus, however, was flushed bright pink and raring to go. 

“You don’t _want_ a trial?” he seethed in a quiet, dangerously smooth voice. His shoulders trembled like a volcano on the brink of eruption. 

“No” 

“Well then, it’s a damned good thing that what you _want_ doesn’t factor into the equation, isn’t it?” 

His grandfather’s sickly sweet, sarcastic tone turned made Sirius see red, snapping him out of his daze.

“Oh really?” Sirius sprung to his feet, fists clenched, glaring daggers at his grandfather. The last time they had stood face to face, Sirius had barely matched the old man in height, but eight years later, the now-adult Sirius stood several inches above the elder wizard who had lost several of his own to age. “Well I’d like to see you try and pull one off without me!” 

“If you think that you’d be the first miserable wretch dragged into a courtroom against their will, boy, then you are very sorely mistaken!” Arcturus roared. He whirled round to point his cane accusingly at Walburga. “I _told_ you something like this would happen! The effort and gold I’ve put into securing this trial and this ungrateful little swine decides that he doesn’t want a trial!” 

“Sirius Orion Black” Walburga’s voice was icily sharp as she glared at her son. “Apologise to your grandfather immediately” 

“For what?!” Sirius shouted. “He’s the one who went behind my back and decided to organise a bloody trial without even consulting me!”

“You know what your problem is, boy?” Arcturus now waved his cane towards Sirius. “You’ve always been far too ignorant of what’s best for you. And whenever someone has to step in and sort you out, you don’t show so much as a lick of gratitude!”

Sirius threw back his head and laughed darkly.

“And that’s what you’re doing, is it? What’s best for _me?_ Don’t kid yourself, Arcturus, you don’t fool me. You’re doing what’s best for you - just like you always have done” 

Arcturus’s face turned an ugly shade of beetroot at his grandson’s nerve by referring to him so disrespectfully. 

“You dare-” 

“Yes, I dare! Why? What are you going to do to me?” Sirius took several, unsteady steps away from Arcturus, waving his arms shakily. “Send me back to Azkaban? Cancel the trial? Nah, you wouldn’t do that. Where would you get your pet heir from then, eh?”

Arcturus’s fury was silent. The old man had no reply. Sirius had struck the bullseye with the arrow, and he knew it. 

“Ha! I knew it!” Sirius laughed humorlessly, his eyes cold. “This was never about wanting me back. You don’t care about me, either of you-” He shot his mother a filthy look. “The family line is dying. And with no better options, you thought you’d dig me out of prison and use me instead. The final option. Not ideal but better than nothing, eh? Well guess what? I’ll go to the trial” 

So unexpected was the final sentence of Sirius’s emotionally-charged rant that both Arcturus and Walburga were both visibly taken aback. 

“You _do_ want a trial?” Walburga asked cautiously. 

“No,” Sirius answered with another dark chuckle. “I said I’ll go, not that I want one. I’ll go to that stinking trial you’ve wasted a shitload of gold on, and you know what I’ll do then? I’ll plead guilty. They’ll chuck me right back into Azkaban quicker than you can say ‘hippogriffs’. So you may as well have flushed all that gold straight down the toilet for all the use it’ll do you” 

Now he’d done it. Arcturus shook so violently with rage that he seemed to radiate a fiery heat. 

“Why you worthless, ungrateful little-!” 

“Enough!” 

Arcturus paused at the sound of Walburga's shrill voice, his cane paused several inches off the ground as though he’d intended to strike Sirius with it. 

Sirius flinched and froze solid. The sound of his mother’s shriek echoed deep inside his mind, sending a flood of dark memories crashing back into the forefront of his mind. Echoes of the nightmares he had endured over the last three years ricocheted back and forth across his mind’s eye - an endless torrent of insults being hurled at him, all in that same, shrill voice-

“Sirius” 

Walburga’s voice, calmer this time, though by no means gentle, snapped Sirius back to the present moment. His purple-faced grandfather was glaring at him with a look of pure disgust.

His mother glared at him with a look of pure disappointment that reminded Sirius startlingly of the day he had put up the posters of the Muggle girls. 

“You ought to go and lie down, Sirius Orion” said Walburga.. “You aren’t in any fit state to be up and about” 

“I’m fine” 

Sirius sounded as unconvincing as he looked. His voice wavered, his body beginning to tremble from weariness and he fought to stop himself from swaying. What little energy reserves he’d had when he’d awoken that morning he’d drained dry with the effort of his shouting fit.

“You are _not_ fine” Walburga’s voice was firm. It left no room for argument. “Go upstairs immediately and rest” 

“Fine,” Sirius practically spat. “I’ll go. I’ll be in my room. By which I mean my actual bedroom, not that disgusting green _pit_ you put me in”

He turned and marched as steadily as he could muster, towards the door. Before he’d made it halfway, however, an annoyingly-familiar voice growled up at him from below. 

“Master Sirius’s breakfast, as requested” Kreacher had bustled in bearing a silver platter containing the fried breakfast Sirius had ordered. He held it up to Sirius at the end of his spindly arms. 

“Piss off, you little cretin” Sirius snapped at the elf, knocking him out of his path so violently that the force of it sent Kreacher stumbling to the side, only just managing to keep his burden from tumbling to the floor.

For the first time in eight years, the halls of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place felt the thunderous footsteps of it's young heir as he stormed upstairs in a cloud of anger. Moments later, the familiar sound of a slamming bedroom door rang out. 

"There, you see?" said Eduardus Black to the startled witch beside him as he clutched the bookcase within his portrait to steady himself inside his shaking frame. "I told you it was him"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so long to post. I got stuck on a bit of a block, if truth be told. Some chapters just don't flow as easily as others. Never mind, it's done now. I hope you enjoy :) 
> 
> Please leave me a review and let me know what you thought ^^ 
> 
> Chat to me on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mariekavanagh


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still reeling from the aftermath of Sirius's explosive declaration, Walburga begins the tricky task of attempting to bring Sirius to heel - a turn of phrase she soon realises is far more apt than she could have imagined...

**18th March 1984**

Walburga clenched her jaw in annoyance as the sound of Sirius’s bedroom door slamming shut rang through the floors of the house. How long it had been since she’d heard that most irritating of noises. The noise which she’d once resented - and which she’d long since resigned herself to the fact that she would never hear again. 

“And _this_ is who you would have save our family from ruin?” Arcturus asked with a scoff. The old man shook his head. “That boy is just as much a stubborn fool as he ever was. Doesn’t want a trial - indeed!” 

He shook his head and frowned.

“The very thought. If you ask me, we may as well save ourselves any more time and gold on this ridiculous scheme and give the ungrateful little wretch what he wants. If it’s Azkaban he wants, then he can damn well go back-” 

“No!” 

The force of Walburga’s outburst caught Arcturus off-guard. He turned to look at his daughter-in-law and met her sharp, threatening glare. She stood with her fists clenched, her shoulders tensed, in full defence stance. 

“Sirius is still recovering from his ordeal” Walburga’s voice was lower, but by no means softer. “He isn’t thinking straight. He doesn’t mean what he says. He can’t do” 

“Can’t he?” Arcturus arched an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Heaven knows there’s no limit to how far that boy is willing go in pursuit of shaming both this family, and me, into an early grave” 

“Don’t be preposterous. He wouldn’t do _that_ ” 

Walburga turned away sharply and crossed the room to stand by the tall front window. She wrung her hands restlessly. 

“He wouldn’t truly do such a thing” She fought to keep her voice even to hide her anxieties. “It isn’t possible. No one would wish such a fate upon themselves” 

“ _He_ would” Arcturus barked back, undeterred. “If anyone is stupid enough to throw away such a golden opportunity to save themselves from that place, it’s your son” 

“Oh, do stop talking such tripe” Walburga snapped. She was fast losing patience with her father-in-law’s unwavering conviction of Sirius’s hopelessness. “Sirius Orion is many things, but he is not stupid. He was always a very high-achiever, after all. Always top of his class at school” 

In spite of her prim, firm voice, there was an undeniable spark of pride in Walburga’s words when she spoke of her son’s achievements.

A spark which did not go unnoticed by Arcturus. 

“Here we go” the old wizard huffed with a shake of his head. 

“What?” Walburga’s head snapped round to face him. 

“I’d wondered how long it would take before we ended up here, you know” Arcturus let out a cold, humourless chuckle. “How long it would be before you gave in. I knew it wouldn’t be long, of course. I ought to have put a galleon or two on it”

“Gave in to _what_ , precisely?” Walburga demanded impatiently. 

“Your old ways, of course!” The old man’s lukewarm smirk faded in a second, his eyes as cold and hard as the iron their colour mimicked. “Indulging that boy, pandering to his ego. You were always too swept up in his favourable traits - few as they may be - to deal with the real problems at hand”

Walburga turned away from Arcturus, her nose in the air. 

“I can’t think what you mean,” she said with a haughty sniff. 

She peaked through the heavy, velvet curtain framing the window and glimpsed the outside world. A young Muggle woman in an atrociously-short and bright green skirt passed by, not an ounce of shame to be seen as she strutted past the house. She reached up a hand and ruffled up her birds’ nest of a hairdo. What a disgraceful sight.

“Don’t you take that stance with me, girl. You know full well what I mean” 

The scolding tone of Arcturus’s voice ignited a spark of annoyance within Walburga. But the weight of his accusation drew her gaze back round to look at him with an almost magnetic pull. The old man’s grey eyes bore into her. His face, rarely known to sport a genuine smile, was wrinkled into a deep, disapproving frown. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me” Walburga replied airily, turning away once more to stare out of the window. 

“Alright, then” Arcturus slammed his cane hard against the floor and leaned forward menacingly. “Since you refuse to confront the truth of the matter yourself, I’ll spell it out plainly for you. You ruined that boy. You and your husband both” 

“What utter-” 

“It is the truth” Arcturus sliced cleanly through Walburga’s protest, silencing her with a dangerous glare. “The pair of you let him run riot from day one, never once reining him in when you ought to have. No wonder the insolent whelp ran off and made a public show of this family! Why, it wasn’t as if he feared those who ought to have stopped him, was it?” 

Walburga folded her arms across her chest, digging her nails deep into her elbows. Her breath shuddered with the effort it took to control her emotions. The mention of her deceased husband, however vague, ignited a deep, dull ache inside her which she fought to keep from taking hold of her. 

If Arcturus felt any similar feeling at the mention of his son, he did as good a job at hiding his emotions as his daughter in law.

They were Blacks, after all. It was a talent which ran in the family.

“What - no defence?” Arcturus demanded, clearly unsatisfied with his daughter-in-law’s silence. “No, of course not. Because you know it’s true. Well I won’t have it!” He slammed his cane down hard against the floor. “Not again” 

Walburga took a deep breath and forced herself to turn to face her father-in-law once more.

“Sirius will come round” she said quietly. “He just needs-” 

“What that boy needs is to be brought firmly under control - and fast” 

Arcturus stomped across the room to stand before Walburga. In a surprising show of strength, he raised his cane and pointed it at her threateningly, pulling himself up to full height, standing unaided. 

“Now you listen to me, girl, and listen good” he seethed, dangerously. “You bring that boy to heel and be quick about it. I have not gone to all this trouble and expense for that whelp of yours to stand up in court and make a complete mockery of this family all over again. This whole plan was your idea and you assured me that it would work, now it is up to you make sure it _does_ work - and ensure _he_ does as he’s told and plays along” 

Walburga swallowed drily and gave a single, stiff nod in reply. 

“Good” Arcturus nodded with a sniff. He was satisfied - for now. He cleared his throat, composing himself, and turned towards the fireplace. “I’ll be off now. I have business to attend to” 

“Would that business be to do with your _crups_ , by any chance?” Walburga’s voice dripped with sarcasm, a clear hint at the widely-held, only half-joking belief that Arcturus Black was far more devoted to the upkeep of his prizewinning bloodline of both show-line and working-line crups than to the cultivation of his own family tree. 

After all, if asked, one could be certain as to which of the two anyone would proclaim to be the more successful of the two. 

“If you’ll recall, I said I’ve a meeting at St. Mungo’s this morning” Arcturus replied, choosing to ignore the obvious jibe as he marched off towards the fireplace. He stood before the hearth and looked round once more at Walburga. His face broke into a faint, amused smile as he caught sight of her look of confusion - a look well hidden to untrained eyes, but in plain view for a more experienced Black. 

“I suppose you thought I’d made all that up, hmm?” Arcturus asked wryly.

Walburga pursed her lips and looked away, answering her father-in-law's question more clearly than if she’d spoken aloud. 

Arcturus chuckled. 

“I’d be in rather a sticky spot with the Minister when she arrives home this evening and confronts her husband about a meeting which never occurred, wouldn’t you say?” 

“I’ve long since given up attempting to assume the limit of what you would do to achieve your aims” Walburga replied frostily, making no effort to remove herself from the corner by the window to see her guest out, as decorum would dictate. 

“And you’d be right to” 

Arcturus took a handful of Floo powder in his gnarled fingers. “I will return this evening. I assume that dinner in this house is still served promptly at eight, as always?” 

Walburga paused, taken aback by the question. It had been a long time since she’d had cause to put on a formal dinner, the likes of which she’d once insisted on her family sitting down to nightly. 

With no one left to join her at the vast, oak dining table, what would have been the point? 

“Yes, of course” 

“Good. I’ll be here for quarter-to. Make sure the boy is presentable” 

Wasting no further time on the frivolousness of fond farewells, Arcturus stepped into the fireplace, ordered it to take him to St. Mungo’s hospital, and was gone in a flash of bright green flames. 

The moment he was gone, Walburga leaned back against the wall behind her. She sighed and rubbed her temple wearily. The drama of the day’s events had drained her - and the day had scarcely yet begun! After several years in self-imposed seclusion - with the days ticking by monotonously, one after the next - she felt ill-equipped to deal with the flurry of mixed emotions which this morning had thrust upon her.

She wanted a smoke. Badly. 

Her head turned at the sound of a slight rattling noise coming from the far corner of the room. Crouched in the shadows, discreetly hidden away, was Kreacher. The elf stood with the heavy, silver serving tray still held aloft in his spindly arms. He looked suitably nervous to have witnessed a private altercation between his mistress and her father-in-law. 

Walburga was not one to spare much thought on the subject of what might be going through her house elf’s head - after all, his was not the place to have opinions, merely to follow her orders - but the thought of her lowly servant having witnessed his mistress receiving a dressing down from the head of the family still brought a flush of irritation to her cheeks. 

“Will Kreacher return to the kitchen now, Mistress?” croaked the elf. He stepped forward out of the shadows upon realising that he had at last been spotted. The contents of his tray rattled again as his arms strained from having carried their burden for so long - not that he would ever dare to set it down without permission. 

“No” 

Kreacher’s large ears twitched curiously, but he did not dare question his mistress’s decision. 

Walburga smoothed her skirts and marched briskly across the room towards the door, beckoning for the elf to follow her. 

“I require a word with my son”

“Kreacher will wait-”

“You will follow me,” Walburga ordered. She was irked by the elf’s uncharacteristic presumptuous manner. 

She eyed the plate on the tray, laden with all manner of greasy breakfast foods, now beginning to grow cold where they sat. 

“After all, Master Sirius will be wanting his breakfast” 

It had been a long time since Walburga had ventured to the topmost floor of Number Twelve. She’d had no reason to venture up that staircase which she so often willed herself to forget existed. There was nothing to be found behind either of the two doors facing each other at the end of the landing - nothing besides a tidal wave of memories which previous experience had taught her led to nothing but an evening spent surrounded by too many empty gin glasses hidden in a fog of cigarette smoke, ruined eyeliner and a piercing headache the following morning. 

It wouldn’t do to end up in such a shameful state too often. And so Walburga shut the staircase out of her mind, and had done so for the last five years. 

Until today. 

With each step upwards, she felt her chest tighten a little more, her instincts urging her to turn back at once, lest she repeat the mistakes of her previous ventures. But this time, she journeyed upwards with purpose. There was unfinished business waiting for her at the top, behind the door on the right-hand side, with it’s dusty plaque bearing the name of its occupant. 

“Wait here until I call you” Walburga told the elf at her feet. 

Kreacher nodded and pressed himself against the wall. 

Walburga gave the door two brisk knocks and entered without waiting for a response. 

“What’s the point of knocking if you’re just going to barge right in anyway?” 

Sirius sat in the middle of the bed, lounging back against the headboard with his arms folded, the picture of teenage sulkiness. 

Walburga felt her heart skip a beat at the sight of him. Combined with his annoyed, snappish tone, she felt as a moment as though she’d fallen victim to a time turner, and had been hurled back into the past to a time which now felt like a dream. A time when she might have marched into her teenage son’s room to confront him after yet another everyday misdemeanour. 

But the past was long-gone, and Sirius was not the errant sixteen-year-old boy he had been when Walburga had last been confronted by his scowling face upon entering his bedroom, as his thin frame, gaunt face and tangled, overgrown hair quickly reminded her. 

Her eyes flickered down at the bed. It had been several years since anyone had last entered this room, and in the absence of any instructions to do so, the elf had not kept up with cleaning it. As a result, the bed covers, though neatly made, were coated in a noticeable layer of dust. 

“Really, Sirius Orion,” Walburga dealt her son a withering look. “Did you not think it would be sensible to ask for the bed to be cleaned before sitting on it?”

Sirius’s face hardened at his mother’s question. His eyes flickered around the room, clearly determined not to meet her gaze. 

In true Sirius fashion, he had either been so caught up in his own temper that he hadn’t realised the state of the bed before hurling himself down upon it, or else, lacking a wand with which to do it himself, the thought of asking someone else to clean it for him was too unthinkable to consider, and so he had stubbornly sat on it regardless. 

Walburga sighed and shook her head. Silly boy. She took out her elm wand and gave it a flick in the direction of the bed. 

Sirius flinched at the gesture, no doubt expecting it to unleash some untold horror upon him, concocted within his own imagination. He’d always had such a very _vivid_ mind, after all.

He visibly relaxed, however, when the layer of dust on the bed beneath him disappeared, leaving the best as pristine as if it had been freshly made that day. 

“I could have done it myself” Sirius offered by way of a less-than-satisfactory thanks. “If I had a _wand_ ” 

“That is entirely out of the question,” Walburga said briskly. She gave her wand another flick at the door behind her. It clicked shut. Satisfied, she tucked her wand back inside her skirt pocket. “You are forbidden from practising magic until your trial”

“A trial which I don’t want and don’t intend on returning from” Sirius tossed his head in frustration. “So I don’t see the point in bothering with whatever daft rules the Ministry have decided on”

Walburga took a sharp breath and clenched her jaw hard in an effort to control her rising temper at Sirius’s atrocious threat. She looked hard at her firstborn, taking in the challenging look plastered across his face. In years gone by, such a clear provocation would have immediately ignited her temper, rewarding Sirius with the argument he clearly wanted. 

“That may be” She forced herself to keep her voice even. “But whatever your intentions, the restrictions are already in place, so I’m afraid you are bound by them until the day of your trial” 

“Which is when, exactly?” 

Sirius sounded almost subdued, having been denied the reaction he’d clearly expected of his mother. 

“In two weeks’ time” Walburga forced her words not to catch in her throat as she spoke. “On 2nd April” 

Sirius groaned. 

“Two _weeks?_ Really?” His voice was heavy with impatience. “I thought those old Ministry stiffs would have wanted to get me kicked back into Azkaban quicker than that” 

“If they’d had their way, they would have” Walburga snapped in annoyance. How dare he sound so keen to give up all she had acquired for him? “But your grandfather and I were able to convince them to allow time for a proper trial to be organised. To give us time to put together a case” 

Sirius snorted with laughter. 

“A case for getting me off the hook? Good luck with that” 

“Enough of this ridiculous talk” Walburga said sharply. She shot her son one of her hard, warning glares, and was satisfied when the smirk on his face was replaced by a dissatisfied frown. 

Not as remorseful as she’d like, but it would do. For now. 

“So, what are these restrictions, anyway?” Sirius asked, tactfully changing the topic. 

“As I said, you are forbidden to practice magic. At all”

“Great” 

“Secondly” Walburga pressed on, ignoring Sirius’s moody sigh and roll of his eyes. “You are confined to this house entirely, until the day of your trial” 

Sirius’s eyes flickered up to look at her questioningly. 

“What, you mean I can’t even go out for a bit of fresh air?” 

“Absolutely not” 

“You mean I’m _trapped_ inside this house?!” Sirius sat up straighter, his voice rising. There was a flicker of alarm in his eyes.

“If that’s the way you want to look at it, yes” Walburga answered, irritably. 

“That’s inhuman!” 

“Don’t talk nonsense, Sirius” 

“Well it is! Azkaban is one thing but they can’t expect me to stay locked up in this house for _two weeks!_ ”

“Well that’s the way it is” Walburga said sharply, her nostrils flaring with anger at her son’s ungrateful response. “The Ministry have placed enchantments around the outside of the house which will prevent you from leaving and alert them to the attempt. So I wouldn’t think about attempting a getaway through your bedroom window, if I were you”

An uncomfortable pause followed as Walburga realised the full impact of her words. Sirius’s grey eyes, identical to her own, looked up at her for a moment, and then looked away. Both parties sensed the other’s clear discomfort at the stark reference to the night Sirius had run away from home. 

“Anything else?” Sirius asked, his voice muted. He slouched back against the headboard of the bed and folded his arms tight across his chest. 

“Yes” Walburga stiffened and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “The Ministry will monitor who comes in and out of the house” 

She tried to keep her intense irritation at this intrusiveness out of her voice. The thought of her quicksilver son being kept securely under lock and key within the house, where she could keep a close eye on him, was reassuring. The thought of Ministry officials nosing into the comings and goings of her house, however, was irksome to say the least.

Judging by the spark of mischief twinkling in her son’s eyes, she had failed in her endeavour. 

“Old Crouch still trying to tunnel his way into the family secrets then, is he?” Sirius asked with a smirk. 

“How many times must I tell you not to talk nonsense?” Walburga scolded her son - but did not deny his claims. “It is purely a matter of confidentiality. It would be sensible for a few people as possible to know you are here. The entire country currently thinks you to be a murderer, after all” 

Sirius’s cocky smirk disappeared, a dark shadow eclipsing his features. 

“Yeah well, they’d be right about that much, if I had my way” 

“Sirius Orion!” 

“Well it’s true” Sirius snapped. His entire body tensed, like a predator ready to pounce. “I wanted to kill the rat that night and I’d kill him today, if I could” 

There was a dangerous, almost canine growl at the back of Sirius’s throat as he spoke, the likes of which his mother could not recall having ever heard from him before. 

It was unsettling. 

Walburga silently observed her firstborn for a moment. So much of the young man before her resembled the son she remembered from his childhood; the spark of mischief, the careless, laid-back attitude, the natural tendency to slip into an atrocious posture. But there now lurked something new, as well. Something cold and unfamiliar which she did not recognise. His years away from home had left their mark upon Sirius Orion in the form of a worrying dark streak which could snuff out the light on his face and take over instantly, like the flickering flame of a candle, vanquished by the slightest breeze.

She reached out a hand towards Sirius. He eyed her warily but did not resist as she took hold of his chin and tilted it upward in her palm. She ran her eyes over his face searchingly. To her surprise, he didn’t resist the hold as she tilted his head round towards her. If anything, his expression almost seemed to soften as she traced her thumb along the bone which jutted out above his hollowed cheek. 

“You need to eat” 

Sirius turned his head away. Walburga reluctantly allowed his face to slip out of her grasp. 

“I’m not hungry” he muttered, unconvincingly. 

“Of course you are,” Walburga said, firmly. “You might be over your illness but you still have a way to go yet before you are fully recovered. You need a proper breakfast” 

“I’m not eating any more of the bloody porridge cr-” 

“Is that what I said?” Walburga cut him off cleanly, raising her eyebrows in a gesture which assured her son that she expected an answer. 

“No” Sirius murmured with a frown. 

“Well then” Walburga retrieved her wand from her skirt pocket once more and gave it a swish in the direction of the bedroom door. The door swung open, revealing the house elf stood dutifully behind it, his arms still outstretched, bearing the silver platter of food. 

“Really, Sirius, I don’t know why you trouble yourself with trying to deceive me” Walburga dealt her son a withering look as she stood up and made way for the approaching elf. “We both know full well that _lying_ is not one of your talents. ‘Not hungry’ - a likely story!” 

A flush of colour filled Sirius’s cheeks and he turned his head away, folding his arms tighter across his chest sulkily. 

Walburga couldn’t help but smile fondly. Her stubborn boy was back, once again.

“Kreacher, serve Master Sirius his breakfast” she ordered as she swished her wand at the bed and conjured a tray table.

“What is it?” Sirius asked, eyeing the platter suspiciously as the house elf obediently floated it up onto the table and bowed lowly. 

“Precisely what you ordered, of course” 

Sirius leaned forward as the plate landed neatly on the tabletop and revealed the full English he himself had indeed requested earlier that morning. 

He stared at the plate in silence, appearing less than delighted with the array of lukewarm, greasy food before him. He swallowed thickly, his nose wrinkling tellingly at the smell of the food.

Walburga felt a bemused sense of satisfaction as she observed his thoughts, clearly plastered on his face.

“What’s the matter?” Walburga tilted her head in feigned confusion. “This is what you wanted, is it not? A _‘decent fry-up’?_ ”

Sirius shot his mother a challenging look, his eyes flickering when he found the same look being aimed back at him by Walburga. A moment of silent understanding of the situation at hand passed between them. 

“Yes, that’s what I wanted” Sirius replied courteously, sitting himself up straighter on the bed. “It’s just that it’s been sat on the plate so long that it’s gotten a tad... cold” 

Walburga tapped the plate with her wand. Plumes of steam rose up from the sausages, eggs, bacon and tomatoes. The faint sizzling of hot grease filled the air. 

“There. Problem solved” Walburga smiled sweetly. 

Sirius’s hollow smile remained. 

“Oh, and one more thing...” Walburga gave her wand a swish at the dusty bedside table. With a faint _pop_ , the potion bottles which had littered the bedside table of the Emerald Room appeared. “You haven’t had your potions yet this morning, I assume?” 

Sirius frowned at the table beside him. 

“What’s the point? I’m hardly about to drop dead any time soon, thanks to you” 

“You still need several more days’ worth to ensure that the fading fever is completely gone from your system” Walburga said firmly, forcing herself not to dwell on the disappointed way in which Sirius spoke of the threat of his own demise. “Now, can I trust you to take them yourself or ought I stay and _assist_ you?”

“Alright, I’ll take the bloody potions” Sirius snapped. 

“Good” 

Walburga pocketed her wand. 

“Now, eat up” she ordered as she turned to leave, gesturing for Kreacher to precede her out of the room. “And then you ought to go back to sleep for a while. You look worn out”

“Are you intending to keep me in bed for the _whole_ of the next two weeks?” Sirius shot his mother an irritated look, twirling the silver fork between his fingers. He was clearly hoping to delay having to take the first mouthful of his food until Walburga had left. 

“Don’t be absurd, Sirius Orion, of course not” Walburga replied as she dealt her son a withering look. “I’ll expect you downstairs at one o’clock for luncheon - properly rested and _suitably dressed_ ”

She nodded towards the wardrobe across from the bed. 

“Most of your robes should still fit, more or less”

“Given that I’m not sixteen anymore-” Sirius sliced off a minute piece of sausage with the side of his fork, but pushed it around the plate aimlessly instead of bringing it to his mouth. “-I wouldn’t bank on any of them still fitting” 

There it was again. That challenging spark in his eyes. 

“We can always let them down a little, if need be” Walburga said firmly. “Hardly an ideal situation but it will have to do until we can get you some new ones. What a hidden mercy it was that you saw fit to leave so many good sets of robes behind - you have quite the selection to choose from, I’m quite sure you’ll find _something_ that fits”

Sirius glared sullenly, the closest he would willingly come to admitting defeat. He at last lifted his fork to his mouth and took a clearly-reluctant nibble on his chunk of sausage. 

Walburga gave a slight nod of approval at seeing him swallow determinedly.

“One o’clock sharp” she said by way of farewell from the doorway, pointing towards the clock on the mantelpiece. “Don’t be late” 

* * *

As the grandfather clock at the far end of the dining room struck quarter-past one, Walburga sighed. 

Deep down, she'd warned herself that it was too much to hope for that Sirius would arrive for lunch on time, but nevertheless, finding herself sitting facing an empty chair at the dining table with a perfectly good meal sat getting cold was no less irritating. 

She drummed her fingers impatiently against the tablecloth. It was just like her son to cause her such needless annoyance. 

No doubt he was hungry - his mother doubted very much that he'd managed to eat much of the fried breakfast she'd presented him with. Not that she’d expected him to, of course. The thought of allowing Sirius to endure an unsatisfying (not to mention unfilling) breakfast was a hard one for her to bear, but it was necessary. It was a crude way to teach a lesson, perhaps, but it was one that her stubborn boy needed to learn. She was certain that a few stomach-churning rashers of lukewarm, grease-soaked bacon would be enough to ensure that he would not question her authority on the definition of a suitable breakfast again.

Clearly Sirius was forcing himself to reject what Walburga had ensured was a far more appetising-smelling and suitable luncheon out of pure spite. 

Her gaze rested on the face of the grand clock once again as it ticked slowly towards twenty-past the hour. Walburga wondered exactly how long she ought to give her errant son to appear of his own accord. 

No, she told herself firmly. If Sirius hadn't arrived by now, he clearly had no intention to. Many such occasions during his teenage years had taught Walburga that if her son intended to appear for a meal, he would arrive on time, or not at all.

She flicked her wand at the large pot of steaming lamb stew which sat in the centre of the table, surrounded by smaller platters of various breads, fruits and cheeses, and conjured a lid to cover it.

"Kreacher" Walburga called, summoning the house elf who appeared immediately at her side. "Keep the table ready. I will return shortly"

Kreacher nodded. 

"Of course, Mistress" mumbled the elf with a dip of his head. He waved his spindly fingers at the table, casting a protective spell around the spread to protect it during his mistress's absence. 

Simmering with irritation, Walburga marched from the room and headed towards the staircase, intent of retrieving her son for lunch - whether he liked it or not.

Forgoing the courtesy knock that she had offered that morning, Walburga flung open the door on the topmost landing and marched into her son’s bedroom. 

“Sirius Orion Black, I specifically told you to be downstairs at one o’-”

Walburga paused mid-sentence, her eyes fixed on the bed in the centre of the room in shock. Not only was the bed unoccupied, it was also still neatly made and clearly un-slept-in. 

An intense sense of dread washed over her like a bucket of ice water. Her heart pounded in her chest as her eyes darted towards the window. A gasp of shock wrenched itself from within her as she realised to her horror that it was flung open, in the exact same way that she’d found it on that awful morning eight years ago.

Walburga flew across the room to the window, casting aside the desk underneath it with a furious force of wandless magic, and leaned as far out as she could. Her eyes frantically searched the streets below, desperate for a glimpse of her missing son, a sign of where he might be.

“Sirius!” she screeched into the air. A dreadful panic bubbled up within her as she was met with no reply other than her own voice, echoing back across the empty street below. 

Walburga turned away from the window and looked around the bedroom. Unlike last time, the drawers and wardrobe were closed, with no evidence of anything having been hurriedly packed before an escape. But then, what would be left for him to want to take that he hadn’t taken last time? 

Her head was spinning as she frantically paced the length of the room, silently pleading for none of this to be real, to wake from this awful dream, for her son to be in this room, where he belonged…

Suddenly, a feeble whimpering noise came from under the bed, followed by the faint sound of scratching against the floorboards. 

Walburga froze. She stared at the gap between the bed and the floor, puzzled. 

“What on earth…?” 

Another whimper. Another scratching. A pair of most peculiar sounds, and certainly neither of them were human.

Instantly on high alert, Walburga drew her wand and pointed it threateningly at the darkness beneath the bed. Something was in here. Some foul, unwelcome creature, magic or otherwise, which must have seized the opportunity to slink in through the open window and make itself at home. 

“ _Lumos_ ” Walburga murmured as she crouched down and pointed her wand at the dark space under the bed. She peered closely into the path of light, and no sooner did the sound of a deep, warning growl fill the air than she had caught sight of a shining pair of eyes and a set of gleaming, sharp teeth, snarling up at her.

“ _Reducto!_ ” 

With a furious flourish of her wand, the blast from Walburga’s wand cracked the bed neatly in two, jagged halves which caving in on the beast’s hiding space. 

With a startled whine, the creature scrambled free from the debris of the bed. In the daylight, Walburga could see that it was a dog - impressive in size, though far too skinny for its build. Its shaggy fur was black in colour, dull and dirty. With the state it was in, it was clear that this was a street mongrel of neither good breeding nor temperament. It wore no collar, and a fearful, defensive expression as it neatly dodged the stinging hex Walburga hurled at it.

Walburga hurled spell after spell at the creature, as she attempted to drive it back towards the window which it must surely have snuck in through. But a dog clever enough to make its way through an upstairs window was also clever enough to predict her moves, and each of her spells narrowly missed their target - until one didn’t. 

The dog let out a pained whine as the flash of yellow from Walburga’s stinging hex struck one of its front paws. The startled creature limped several steps to the side, into a stream of sunlight coming through the open window.

Walburga raised her wand to strike the mutt with a binding spell - but hesitated. 

The dog was staring at her with a wounded, sullen expression. It’s ears were back, it’s shoulders hunched, its tail tucked tight between its legs. One could almost say that it looked sulky. 

It was an expression she could have sworn she recognised all too well.

The dog’s eyes caught the sunlight, and Walburga realised with a startled jolt that they were a particularly-distinct shade of grey - an exact mirror of her own. 

“Sirius…?” Walburga spoke hesitantly, not quite believing what she was suggesting, but still somehow unable to stop herself.

The dog looked away from her. It seemed nervous of her. Its ears flattening further against its head. It let out a pathetic whine in the back of its throat and limped back towards the broken bed, holding up the paw which Walburga had struck with her stinging hex as it attempted to find a way to crawl back under the broken bed frame.

“Ah, ah!” Walburga lifted her wand in warning, but did not cast a spell. She had no need to. 

As she suspected it would, the dog froze, abandoning its attempt to retreat back into the safety of the dark space under the bed.

Her suspicions were further confirmed by the way the dog’s grey eyes - an impressive colour indeed for a mere mongrel - outright refused to meet her own. 

“It _is_ you, isn’t it?” Walburga slowly walked around the end half of the bed to stand before the dog. 

The creature’s thin frame was tense, as though it wanted nothing more than to dart back into the safety of under the bed, but knowing better than to attempt to. 

Walburga slowly dropped to her knees to be at eye-level with the dog. She reached out her wand, still not quite trusting her ever-growing suspicions enough to take too much risk, and tilted the dog’s head up with her wand tip. 

“My my,” said Walburga, running her eyes up and down the dog’s form. “This is a rather impressive work of magic, I must say”

The dog’s flattened ears pricked up slightly at the sound of Walburga’s praise. 

Walburga smiled. Her suspicions were confirmed. 

But how on _earth_ had he achieved such a feat?

She removed her wand and replaced it with her hand, cupping the dog’s snout with her palm. She was now more than confident that this was not a dog which would so much as consider biting her.

He wouldn’t dare.

“I can’t say I’m surprised by your form, of course” The dog let out a faint whine at Walburga’s words. “After all, what _else_ would you be?

She released her hold on the dog’s snout and moved her hand to gently stroke the fur between his ears. The dog relaxed ever so slightly, and when she gave him a little scratch behind one ear, his tail gave an automatic thump of approval against the floor. 

The dog whined suddenly and pulled away from her, as though startled by the sound of his own tail. 

Walburga couldn’t help but give a little, knowing smirk. That was most definitely her son hiding within this canine disguise.

She rose once more to her feet and brushed away the flecks from the disturbed layers of dust which had clung themselves to her gown during the altercation.

“Now, as I’m sure you have by now realised, I have some questions which require answering” 

The dog let out a slight whimper at her feet, his ears pressed tightly against his head once more.

“So, I think it’s high time you turned back into my son” 

Walburga spoke with a sense of authority that assured the dog that she was not asking - she was ordering. 

A few moments later, the dog was gone. And stood before her, with an expression equally as sullen in human form as it had been in canine, was Sirius. 

Walburga folded her arms, fixing her son with a stern glare, the likes of which she had dealt him countless times as a child when he’d been sent to her for chastisement after his latest crimes. The wand balanced delicately between her slender fingers tapped expectantly against her elbow, with delicate silver sparks emitting from the tip.

Sirius, meanwhile, avoided her gaze almost entirely. His gaze flickered up from the floor occasionally, as if to gauge her mood. Right from when he was a small boy, he’d never been able to look her in the eye when he knew he was in trouble. 

“It’s funny - I kept on at you for years about how ugly that bed frame was,” he remarked finally. “Didn’t think you’d ever end up destroying it _for_ me” 

Walburga disregarded Sirius’s attempt to wriggle his way out of trouble with a joke. It had never once worked on her, and for the life of her she couldn’t work out why he thought it might work now. 

With her eyes still firmly fixed on her son, she lifted her wand towards the broken bed. 

“ _Reparo_ ” she ordered smoothly. 

The two broken halves of the wooden frame instantly repaired themselves. Not a scar remained on the wood to suggest any damage had ever been done. 

Sirius half-grimaced at the sight of his repaired bed. 

“I suppose that’s any hope of a new one gone out the window, then” 

“Be _quiet_ , Sirius” Walburga snapped, her temper immediately flaring at the suggestion of _anything_ leaving this room via a window, metaphorically or otherwise.

The faint smirk threatening to take hold on Sirius’s face disappeared instantly. 

She took hold of his hand, the one which had replaced the paw she had struck with her stinging hex, and examined it closely. A faint red mark lingered on the skin, a harmless after-effect of her hex. Perhaps a little tender, but nothing more. 

Even so, Walburga felt a stab of regret in the pit of her stomach as she examined her son’s hand.. Of course, if she’d _known_ …

“You didn’t think I’d made a bolt through the window, did you?” 

There was a faint trace of amusement in Sirius’s words which made Walburga’s ears prickle as they reddened in response. 

“Of course not” she snapped, busying herself with further examining the red mark on his hand. “As I said, the Ministry has placed enchantments around the house. You wouldn’t have made it past the window sill” 

The matter-of-fact tone of her voice clearly left her son unconvinced. 

“Yeah. Of course”

Walburga forced herself not to reply. She pressed the tip of her wand to the red mark on his hand and murmured the spell to repair the damage. Sirius winced slightly at the tingle of the spell’s magic on his skin as it healed.

“Thanks” Sirius muttered as his mother released his hand from her grip. He held the hand close to his chest, still refusing to look up at her. 

“Come,” Walburga’s hands fumbled slightly as she tucked her wand back inside her pocket. She gestured for Sirius to follow her out of the room. “You are late for luncheon. The food will be spoiled”

“Thought you wanted me to get all dressed up first?” Sirius glanced down at his dressing gown and slippers. 

“Never mind that now” Walburga snapped impatiently. “You need to eat”

“I think you’ll find I have” There was a note of triumph in Sirius’s voice as he nodded to the empty plate on the tray table, discarded on the floor. 

Walburga’s eyes widened at the sight of the empty plate. The foolish boy had indeed forced down the entire plateful of muck. He was still far too delicate to manage such a meal - she was surprised he’d not been sick! 

She quickly stifled her shock when she realised that he had at last looked straight at her. He wore a challenging expression, clearly viewing this foolhardiness as some sort of victory. After all, there was surely no reason Sirius would have put himself through such an ordeal other than the fact that it was precisely what his mother didn’t expect him to do.

“You need to eat something of actual substance, Sirius Orion” she fixed her son with a sharp look. “And we will discuss this latest _development_ whilst you do”

The expression plastered across her son’s face assured Walburga that there was nothing Sirius less like to do than explain to his mother how he’d come to be cowering under his bed as a dog. But, to her satisfaction, he wisely decided against further resisting the inevitable and allowed his mother to lead him out of the room. 

* * *

Eight years. Eight years it had been since Sirius Black had last sat at this dining room table, and yet, to look at the spread laid out before him, it could well have only been yesterday. 

If there was one thing his mother could be relied upon, it was that nothing would ever persuade her to change a thing. The table was draped in the same hideous white tablecloth, embroidered with black flowers, as pristine as the day it was bought, no doubt at least three decades ago. The same gaudy, gold-rimmed water carafes and goblets glinted in the light, one set beside each placing. The bread, fruit and cheese still sat on the same bone china plates, each one stamped with the Black family crest, a feature which Sirius had always felt soured the taste of the food they held. And the lamb stew, one of his favourite meals, steaming away inside the exact same serving dish.

However, whereas the aroma of the slow-cooked meat would once have made his insides ache with longing, with a stomach full of forced-down fried breakfast, Sirius found himself with very little desire to eat any of the food laid out on the table.

Eight years, and Walburga Black still knew precisely which of Sirius’s buttons to press to get her desired results. 

“Eat up,” Walburga ordered briskly from behind his chair as she guided the dish and ladle with her wand to dole out a generous portion of the lamb stew onto Sirius’s plate. 

Sirius suppressed a grimace as he caught a whiff of the food. The delicious smell filled his nose and sent a wave of desire running through him. Years of prison scraps had deprived him of the memory of what good food smelled like. 

A newly-returned sensation tarnished by the fact that he felt an irritating lack of hunger after unwisely forcing down the breakfast he’d realised too late was a bad idea. 

Just as his mother knew he would. 

Damn her. 

Nevertheless, he soldiered on, picking up his silver fork and spearing one of the more modest-sized chunks of lamb. He stirred it in the gravy, conscious of his mother’s shadow still looming over him. He didn’t need to look round to see the beady look in her eyes, daring him to refuse to eat, and prove her right.

He brought the meat to his lips and took a small bite. The tender lamb practically fell apart at the slightest provocation - cooked to perfection. 

The delicious taste made Sirius’s stomach churn. 

He felt his mother’s hand fall to rest on his shoulder and give it a slight squeeze of approval. The head of her shadow jolted as she gave a single nod before taking her own seat across the table, opposite him. 

“So,” Once she’d seen Sirius take a second bite of lamb, Walburga served herself a modest helping of fruit and cheese. Her steely gaze darted up to check on his progress every few moments as she set about buttering a bread roll. “We needn’t waste time with small talk. Tell me when you became an Animagus” 

The potato Sirius had stoically been in the process of consuming forced its way down his throat like a jagged stone.

“I don’t-”

“Do not waste my time, Sirius Orion” Walburga cut in sharply as she set down her butter knife with a tad more force than strictly necessary. “You know as well as I that there is no other means by which you could so easily turn yourself into an _animal_ and back again - let alone without a wand. Now tell me, when did you learn how to transform?”

Sirius set down his fork, abandoning his attempt to face forcing down another chunk of lamb. 

“It was - a while ago” he murmured, staring down at the embroidery of the tablecloth. 

“Given that you’ve spent the last three years in prison, I’d say that much was rather obvious” Walburga replied tartly as she popped a grape into her mouth. “I suppose this all came about whilst you were living with that Potter boy?”

Sirius felt a painful knot tightening in the pit of his stomach at the mention of James. He turned his head away from the steaming plate of food, the rich smells making him feel more nauseous by the moment.

“No” he forced himself to reply. He knew full well she’d only demand it of him if he didn’t. 

“No?” Walburga sounded impatient. Her food sat on her plate, all pretence of being interested in the task of eating gone. Her gaze was fixed firmly on her firstborn. “Well _when_ , then?” 

“Before” 

Silence filled the room as Walburga processed her son’s answer. 

“You… became an Animagus, _before_ you left home?”

Sirius leaned back in his chair in an attempt to avoid the increasingly-overpowering smell of the lamb stew. He couldn’t stand this. Any of it. It was too much. He felt ill.

Walburga, meanwhile, had paled in shock as realisation dawned on her. 

“You were sixteen…” 

“Fifteen”

“I beg your _pardon?_ ” 

Anyone in acquaintance with Walburga Black was well aware of the fact that she found muttering under one’s breath to be irritating to the point of angering. But to look at her now, her jaw clenched tight, her shoulders tensed and her pupils reduced to narrow slits, Sirius knew that this was no mere annoyance to her. His mother was absolutely furious. 

“You were still at school” Walburga seethed, her voice trembling. “You were a _child_ ” 

“No I wasn’t” Sirius shot back with all the irritation as if he was still that same teenager, irked at being belittled. 

“Yes you were!” Walburga rose to her feet so forcefully that the force of her chair as it was pushed backwards rattled the silverware on the table. 

Sirius’s blood ran cold as he was at last faced with his mother’s true form, the likes of which he’d endured in an endless montage of during flashbacks in Azkaban, and which she had, until now, somehow managed to keep disguised under a facade of firm yet gentle caring towards him. 

But the sickle had to drop at some point - and after all, a nundu never changes its spots.

“Fifteen years old and practising such dangerous magic - what on earth were you _thinking?!_ ”

Revealing the truth was not an option. Sirius didn’t even consider it. Perhaps it was out of some strange, stubborn sense of loyalty which refused to release its hold of him. Perhaps it was because the angry, condescending way his mother shouted at him always filled Sirius with an overpowering desire to deny her on principle. 

Whatever the reason why, Sirius simply shrugged in response.

Walburga sucked in a sharp breath in response to her son’s insolence. Her knuckles whitened as her grip around the handle of the wand she had subconsciously withdrawn tightened. 

Sirius braced himself, but the hex he expected did not come. He glanced across the table at his mother, awaiting her reaction. To his surprise, she took several deep, shuddering breaths and slowly sat back down in her seat. 

“I suppose the fact that both you and Pettigrew are Animagi is no coincidence?” Walburga asked, quietly. She busied her hands with the process of pouring herself a glass of water with her wand. The carafe shook a little from the unsteadiness of her magic.

“What?” Sirius tensed at the sound of the rat’s name, his arm frozen outstretched in the middle of attempting to reach for his own carafe of water.

Walburga shot him a look of mild disapproval at his coarse language but did not comment. She flicked her wand across the table and poured Sirius’s glass of water for him.

“After all, it is far too unlikely to consider - two underage wizards undertaking such a ridiculously dangerous stunt separately. Did Pettigrew coerce you into joining him in this endeavor?” 

Sirius gave a soft snort of bitter amusement at the suggestion that the rat could have been the one to instrument such a plan, or that he was capable of coercing anyone into anything.

“No” he answered, taking a sip of water in the hope of settling his stomach.

His mother peered across the table at him with a knowing look. 

“Did _he_ have anything to do with this?” she asked, icily. 

Sirius was far too used to his mother’s distaste towards his closest friend not to recognise precisely who she was referring to. 

“Yes,” he shot back proudly, matching his mother’s hard look. He sat up straighter, fuelled by the surge of defensiveness that Walburga’s disapproval always triggered within him when she spoke of James. “James was involved. He was one too”

Walburga gave a sniff and shook her head disapprovingly. 

“I ought to have guessed” she remarked, glaring absently. “Merlin knows we knew that boy was a bad influence on you, what with the endless letters about your behaviour. But to drag you into something like _this_ -”

“It wasn’t James’s idea” Sirius’s brow furrowed. “It was mine” 

Walburga’s eyes widened. Their sharp gaze fixed on Sirius, who met them with a look of proud defiance. 

Her nostrils flared, her mouth thinned, but Walburga’s temper did not flare up at this latest development as her son expected. 

“My, my” she said in a chillingly cool voice. “And what, pray tell, gave you the inspiration to attempt such a dangerous feat of illegal magic?” 

“It isn’t illegal to become an Animagus” Sirius retorted in a vain attempt to avoid the question. 

“It is when you are fifteen years old and _unsupervised,_ Sirius Orion” Walburga shot back sharply. 

"Since when did this family care about Ministry supervision?" Sirius argued. "Plenty of Blacks have been unregistered Animagi"

"That may be so, but none of them became as such without the family's knowledge, nor did they risk expulsion from school whilst doing it" Walburga replied sharply. "Now tell me - what possessed you to do such a thing?"

“I just-” Sirius waved a hand aimlessly in the air as he searched for an answer. “I read it in a book somewhere and thought it would be a bit of fun” 

“Fun” Walburga repeated, her clear annoyance bubbling up once more. “You thought that risking permanent disfigurement to turn yourself into an animal would be _‘a bit of fun’_?”

“In a word, yes” 

Walburga’s anger was clear to see. It was plastered across her elegant features, as clear as day. But there was something else - a flicker of something which lurked just beneath the surface, not quite able to allow itself full reign over her. 

And suddenly, like the flicker of candlelight disappearing in a breath of wind, it all vanished. 

“Your food is getting cold” 

Walburga’s gaze returned to her own plate. She busied herself with cutting a minute bite of cheese and spearing it with her fork. 

Sirius observed her for a moment, the muted tone of her voice having thrown him cleanly off the scent of what his mother might do next. Sirius had always known what his mother would do next - and it more often than not involved ferocious shouting, angry hexes thrown at the walls, doors slammed shut in rage. But now, he wasn’t sure he knew what to expect at all.

He jumped slightly as Walburga’s eyes flitted upwards as she lifted her fork to her mouth and caught him staring at her.

“What’s the matter, Sirius?” she asked, her head tilted in concern. “Aren’t you hungry?” 

Sirius glanced down at his plate. The few bites he’d managed had felt like a mammoth achievement, and yet the plate still seemed irritatingly full. 

He took up his fork and determinedly speared another piece of lamb. He lifted it halfway to his mouth - and then paused. 

He couldn’t do it. He slammed his fork back down onto his plate and leaned back in his chair, away from the table. 

Across the table, Walburga’s expression practically gleamed with satisfaction, only half heartedly disguised as concern. 

“Turning down food?” she shook her head sadly. “My goodness, this isn’t like you at all” 

Sirius burned with angry humiliation at having to admit defeat.

Walburga set aside her own fork and summoned the house elf. 

With a loud CRACK which made Sirius wince, Kreacher appeared beside the table. 

“Kreacher, clear the table” Walburga ordered, getting to her feet. 

The elf’s ears twitched with concern at the sight of the barely-touched spread. 

“Is the food not done well, Mistress?” he asked, worriedly. “Kreacher will do better next-”

“There is nothing wrong with the food, Kreacher,” said Walburga, as she strolled across to stand beside her still-seated son. “I’m afraid that Master Sirius has rather overindulged at breakfast and now finds himself unable to eat a proper, nutritious lunch as a result”

Sirius glared upwards in response to the disapproving look he could practically _feel_ radiating from his mother.

“I’m sure his appetite will have returned by dinner” she remarked. “Ensure that the dining room is set up and ready in time for eight o’clock” 

Kreacher bowed silently in response and quickly set about magicking away the plates of food. 

“A dinner? Really?” Sirius frowned up at his mother questioningly. Had his mother really kept up the ridiculous carry-on of a formal dinner in the dining room all these years?

“Of course, Sirius” Walburga replied firmly. “Your grandfather will be joining us” 

If she noticed the way Sirius grimaced at the mention of Arcturus, Walburga did not react to it. She ran her hand through Sirius’s tangled hair, thoughtfully. 

“You need a proper tidy-up first, though” she said. “I’ll have the elf run you a bath - and then it’s high time I sorted out your hair”

Sirius had to admit, the thought of a bath was a sorely tempting one. He’d long-since figured out that his mother must have tackled most of the grime of Azkaban with cleaning charms when he’d first arrived, but even magic was no real substitute for good old soap and water. 

He may have swapped one prison for another, but at least the facilities here was marginally better quality - even if the jailer was twice as haunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken me so ridiculously long to update. The last couple of months have been plagued with technical difficulties. I hope the chapter was worth the wait. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know :) 
> 
> Chat to me on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mariekavanagh


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius's transformation back to the model image of a pureblood son continues - much to his annoyance. But it is his grandfather's discovery of a transformation of an entirely other sort which truly causes sparks to fly within Grimmauld Place.

**18th March 1984**

One of Sirius’s earliest memories was of refusing to get into the bath. As a small child he would - to the eternal frustration of a long line of nannies - run, hide, shout and scream in protest at the mention of bath time. The claw-footed bathtub, with its feet not of claws, but of slithering, golden serpents, had ignited a spark within his young, but already famously-vivid imagination. He’d been convinced that the moment he was in the tub, the four snakes would spring to life and slither inside, intent on curling themselves around his limbs like ropes, pulling him down under the water.

The air in the bathroom was thick with steam from the hot water. The bathtub, the very same one from Sirius’s now-grainy childhood memories, was filled high and topped like an ice cream sundae with a generous coating of snowy-white, soapy foam. One of Kreacher’s few positive qualities was his ability to draw a decent bath, and it seemed the shrivelled little elf had not forgotten that, as a child, one of Sirius’s attempts to avoid getting into the bathtub he viewed as a death trap was to loudly complain that there weren’t enough bubbles.

Whether this generous helping today was a gesture of genuine consideration or simply the bat-eared little cretin’s attempt at a joke, Sirius wasn’t sure. But either way, the steaming water certainly did look inviting. 

Sirius hissed as he dipped a foot into the water. Three years spent locked away in the cold of Azkaban had robbed him of the memory of the simple pleasure of a hot bath. After a moment’s pause to adjust to the shock, he slowly lowered himself into the bath, forcing himself to pursue against his skin’s protest against the searing water. When at last he was fully in, he sank up to his neck in the water and laid back. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly as his body began to adjust to the heat. The warmth seeped into his cold, brittle bones and warmed him through. Merlin, he’d forgotten how heavenly it felt to be so warm.

A sudden, painful thought struck him deep in the chest. Sirius felt his heart sink, like a stone to the bottom of a pool, landing with a sharp thud. He opened his eyes and stared at the gold, serpent-headed water taps. The fanged snakes glared back at him accusingly. 

What right had he to feel such luxury, after all he’d done? 

Sirius hauled himself out of the water and sat back up, a wave of water spilling over the rim of the bath as he moved. He splashed a handful of water over his face and felt the soapy suds sting his eyes. He blinked hard, feeling the full effect. He might not be deserving of a hot soak, but if he emerged from this bathroom in the state of cleanliness anything other than pristine, he wouldn’t put it past _her_ to drag him back inside and scrub him raw herself.

Old habits die hard, after all.

An array of bottles of toiletries were laid out on an end table beside the bath. Sirius leaned over the edge and stretched out an arm, but the table was an irritating inch too far away to reach. He stretched further, his fingertips just brushing the edge of the shampoo bottle. But in his still-weakened state, his arm gave a shudder - and sent the glass bottle toppling to the floor where it landed with a loud smash. 

“Shit” Sirius hissed as he stared at the mess on the floor. A task as simple as reaching for a damned bottle of shampoo, and he couldn’t even manage that. If he only had a _wand_ -

“Sirius?” He started at the sound of his name, accompanied by a sharp rap of knuckles on the bathroom door. “Are you alright?”

Scarcely a moment had passed since the bottle had smashed. Had his mother been camped right outside the door all this time? 

“Fine” he replied, a little too hastily. 

“What was that noise?” 

“Nothing” he called back, but to no avail. His head whipped round as the lock on the door gave a click and it swung wide open. 

In marched Walburga, her wand brandished, her grey eyes flickering between him and the mess on the floor. 

“Mother!” Sirius shouted, plunging himself neck-deep beneath the water. 

Walburga ignored him. Sirius watched as she pointed her wand at the smashed shampoo bottle and gave a single, silent flick in its direction. The bottle repaired itself instantly, its contents replaced. It floated back up onto its empty space on the side table.

“Thanks” Sirius murmured, still submerged up to his chin in the water. 

Walburga’s hawkish gaze turned its attention back to her son. Sirius felt himself shrink further under her withering gaze. He was thankful for the thick layer of bubbles shrouding him from view, but the critical way she looked at him still made him want to sink under the water completely. 

“Sit up” 

Sirius looked up at her. 

“What?” 

“It was a simple enough instruction” 

Somewhat reluctantly, Sirius obeyed, slowly pulling himself up out of the water, but doing his best to ensure that as much of himself as possible was hidden by the mounds of bubbles. Despite his best efforts, it was impossible to completely hide his skeletal torso from view, and he could practically feel his mother’s gaze burning into his back at the sight of his sharp shoulder blades jutting out. He brought his knees up to his chest, shrinking himself into a defensive, hunched position.  
  
What he expected next was a disapproving remark about how thin he was, most likely followed by a long chastising about how he ought to have made more of an effort with his lunch.

What he got was the sight of his mother silently picking up the newly-repaired shampoo bottle and perching herself on the rim of the bath.

“Head back” she said, in a surprisingly soft voice. Taken aback, and with little else to do besides, Sirius did as she ordered. 

He flinched as he saw his mother’s wand rise towards his head from the corner of his eye, but relaxed when he felt a rush of hot water cascading through his hair and down his back. 

A heavy silence reigned as Walburga repeated the action several times over until the entirety of Sirius’s thick, tangled mane was soaked to her satisfaction.

“You always used to hate this” Walburga murmured, her voice barely audible over the loud pop which echoed through the room as she uncorked the shampoo bottle. 

“What?” Sirius turned to look at her. Her face was blank, refusing to give away any clue as to what true feelings lurked beneath her blank façade.

“Having your hair washed” Walburga replied as she tipped a handful of the purple liquid into her palm. She gave an amused sigh and shook her head. “The scenes you would create! Such a silly, trivial thing to make such a fuss over every evening. It was quite the spectacle” 

Sirius wordlessly stared at the serpent-headed taps. He stiffened automatically as his mother’s hands rested on his head and began to lather the shampoo into his hair. To his surprise, she kneaded the foam into his head with surprising gentleness. It was a far cry from the rough, head-jerking affairs he could recall from vague childhood memories. As her fingers continued to massage his scalp, he felt himself relaxing instinctively. 

“You used to give your nannies quite the ordeal, I recall” Walburga continued, airily. Sirius half-wondered whether she was expecting a reply to the vague comments she made, or if she was simply talking to herself. He hugged his knees tighter to his chest.

By the time Walburga was satisfied that his hair was thoroughly-soaped, Sirius’s head felt heavy with the weight of it. Walburga then lifted her wand once more and began to rinse his head clean with another jet of hot water. The shampoo fell away from his hair, with a good deal of the knots untangling themselves as they were rinsed.

“How you used to complain!” Walburga remarked as she worked the clean water into the layers of hair. “Endlessly whining that the suds would run into your eyes and sting. What nonsense. Why, if I’d had a galleon for every time each of those useless girls had to summon me to finish the task myself, all because of that same, silly trick-”

“Never did fail to work, though, did it?”

The water gushing from the tip of Walburga’s wand ceased suddenly. Sirius stared straight ahead, but he could see from the corner of his eye that his mother had stiffened, caught off guard by the words which he wasn’t sure he’d meant to say. He hadn’t seemed to be able to help it - he’d blurted them out before he’d fully realised what he was doing. His heart hammered so hard in his chest that he was surprised the water around him didn’t ripple.

After a silent moment which dragged by for what felt more like an hour, Walburga discreetly cleared her throat and resumed rinsing Sirius’s hair in silence until the shampoo was completely gone. 

She ran her fingers through the soaked, ink-coloured curtain of silk his hair had become - the sections that weren’t marred by thick clumps of matts which even the detangling shampoo couldn't conquer. She gave a faint “hmm” of approval at its new, clean state.

Her task now complete, Walburga stood up. 

“I’ll leave you to finish up,” she said, pocketing her wand. “Once you’re clean and dry, come to the parlour. It’s time we tackled that hair properly”

When Sirius failed to reply, she turned away from the bath and left the room, closing the door behind her. 

The moment he heard the door click shut, Sirius breathed a heavy sigh of relief and slid back down beneath the water, wishing he could be completely submerged within the safe obscurity of the steam and suds, never to be seen again. 

The past few minutes had felt entirely surreal, and he couldn’t quite place how he felt about any of it. He lifted a hand to his head and ran his fingers through his newly-clean hair, tracing the tracks of where his mother’s fingers had kneaded at his scalp. A part of him had felt the urge to shake her off, to snap that he didn’t need her help and could do it himself. So why hadn’t he? 

_The same reason you kicked up such a storm to get her to do it when you were a child_ , a voice inside his head told him. 

Pushing that irritating voice firmly to the back of his mind, Sirius reached for the (thankfully easier to reach) bar of soap on the side table and began the process of removing the visible evidence of his three years in prison. 

* * *

Half an hour after she’d left Sirius alone to finish his bath, Walburga was mildly surprised to find herself joined by her in the parlour, precisely as ordered. She’d half-expected him to retreat back to his bedroom to hide, forcing her to retrieve him herself.

Given his previous history with hair cuts, she’d had good reason to be wary. 

The state of Sirius’s hair had been a constant source of battle between mother and son throughout his teenage years. As a child, Sirius had reluctantly allowed his mother to give his thick, black hair a trim every few weeks - a task she never once delegated to his many governesses over the years. But once he’d started at Hogwarts, and the influence of those wretched Gryffindors he’d been surrounded by had corrupted him, he’d started to fight back against being forced into a chair on his first evening home every school holiday to have his shaggy, overgrown mop trimmed back into neat submission. 

“Can’t you just let me grow it out?” Sirius had argued at the age of fourteen. “I don’t want it short. I want to grow it long - like the men in the magazines” 

Walburga had been appalled to hear that not only did her firstborn wish to grow his hair out to such a shaggy, downright wild length, but she was downright livid that he’d been inspired to do so by photographs in Muggle magazines. 

“No son of mine is going to shame this family by traipsing around looking like a good-for-nothing Muggle _scum_ ” she’d hissed, digging her nails into her son’s shoulder as she pushed him down into the chair for his hair cut. “And besides, your hair is far too thick for such a length. It needs to be kept tidy”

“I don’t _want_ to look tidy” Sirius had shot back with a scowl, folding his arms sulkily across his chest in protest. A token protest, at best, for his mother had won the battle and gotten her way - as she'd known she would.

From then on, the moment the family had arrived home from Kings Cross station on the first evening of every holiday, Sirius would shoot straight upstairs and slam his bedroom door firmly shut, keeping himself hidden away in a vain effort to avoid his mother’s inevitable attentions to the straggly, feathered ends of his hair. His efforts were always in vain. Sooner or later, Walburga would have her way, and Sirius would spend his first evening of the holidays with a face like thunder at the dinner table - but with a head of freshly-trimmed hair. And so, his mother was satisfied. 

Stood before her now, with his freshly-scrubbed skin flushed a far more healthier hue, and his newly-washed hair hanging in wet tendrils around the arms of his fresh pyjamas, Walburga noted with amusement that Sirius eyed the chair she had conjured and told him to sit on with the same look of dread as he'd had when he was twelve years old. 

“Hurry up” she said, gesturing to the chair with her wand. “We haven’t all day” 

Sirius’s eyes silently flickered up at her once more, but finally, he shuffled forward and slowly sank into the chair as ordered. 

Walburga lifted a hand to take hold of a clump of hair, and Sirius suddenly jerked his head away like a startled horse.

“Can you just-” 

His rushed words paused as Walburga’s gaze immediately fixed upon him at lightning speed. He swallowed dryly before continuing. 

“Can you just not cut it too short. Please” 

Walburga continued to stare, stony-faced. 

“I will cut it as short as is necessary,” she said, firmly. She lifted a thick, tangled clump of hair in her hand and shook her head with a troubled sigh. “There’s certainly quite a lot that needs to go”

“Yes, but you’ll leave what you can?” Sirius asked, turning round to look up at her. “I don’t want it short. Not like- Not like before” 

Walburga paused to consider her response. Her overwhelming, natural urge was to tell her son in no uncertain words that his hair would be cut as short as long or as short as she deemed it ought to be. 

But, she conceded, if she was to have any hope at all of ensuring that Sirius was presentable for dinner that evening, she was going to have to tread carefully, and choose her words wisely. It wouldn’t do to say the wrong thing and have him storming off up to his room in a fit of temper twice in as many days.

Besides, the appalling state of what had always been one of her handsome boy’s finest features had been a source of major irritation to her since he’d first arrived home, and she was itching to at last get on with the task of restoring it to its former glory.

“Perhaps” she said, running another lock of hair through her fingertips and frowning when she was stopped by another large matt in her path. “As I said, a good deal of it will need to go. It is simply too tangled. But, we will see what can be saved”

This tentative promise was enough to placate Sirius, for now. He gave a single, slight nod and turned his back to her, giving silent consent for her to begin. 

Walburga gathered the first lock of hair in her hand, ensuring the biggest of the matts was included, and raised her wand. The elm wood sliced through the thick hair as cleanly as a razor-sharp blade. Walburga released her grip and the hair fell to the floor. 

Sirius winced at the sound of the hair being cut. He breathed deeply but did not resist as his mother gathered another lock of hair into her hand. 

“You’ve always had such difficult hair” she murmured as she sliced away the next matt-ridden chunk with her wand-tip. Her fingers lingered on one of the remaining sections, letting the wet, inky strands flow along her fingertips, her other hand resting atop Sirius’s bony shoulder as she took a moment to pause and take stock of her work. “Such a trial to control, even when you were a child. Always so unruly. Practically wild, if left unchecked for too long”

The shoulder underneath the hand on which it rested suddenly tensed, and Walburga felt a chill run down her spine. Was she still simply talking about his hair, or had some deeper feelings managed to bleed their way into her words? Did she expect a reply to any of her rambling? The emotions tumbling about inside her felt as tangled as the mane of hair she was in the process of taming.

Seizing hold of herself, Walburga cleared her throat and busied herself with cleanly slicing away the next chunk of matted hair. 

After a few silent moments, broken only by the occasional cutting sounds, Walburga spoke again - his time, with no doubt that she expected Sirius to listen. 

“You know I’ll have to inform your grandfather about your being an Animagus, don’t you?” 

Sirius’s head whirled round so suddenly that Walburga had to withdraw her wand quickly, lest she risk scalping a section of his head. 

“No,” Sirius said, his eyes wide with urgency. “Please, no. You can’t tell him _that_ ”

“It’s too great a secret to keep from him” Walburga’s voice was firm. “In any case, you ought to have told us this in the first place, when you revealed Pettigrew’s Animagus form” 

Sirius visibly stiffened at the sound of Pettigrew’s name. 

“It’s none of his business” he snapped, viciously. “It’s no one’s business except mine” 

“Your business is your family’s business” Walburga said sternly. “You’ve no business keeping secrets from us, particularly when it could affect the outcome of your trial”

“I don’t care about the fucking trial!” Walburga was taken aback by the force of Sirius’s angry voice. “How many times do I have to say it? You’re wasting your time on the whole thing”

Sirius attempted to hurl himself out of the chair, but was thwarted by a lightning-quick reaction from Walburga, who forced him firmly back into his seat with a sharp jerk of her wand.

“Enough of this!” she hissed. Her wand trembled in her hand as anger immediately flared up inside her, triggered by her son’s awful words. To her satisfaction, Sirius flinched at her dangerous tone. “I’ve had quite enough of your foolish talk. I will be informing Arcturus of your little secret this evening and if he decides it will benefit your case in any way, we will use it”

Sirius opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced when Walburga raised her wand threateningly. 

“And if I hear one more word on the subject, I’ll relieve you of your words until you’re ready to use them more appropriately” 

Sirius’s expression darkened at the memory of his mother’s silencing charms - that most hated of childhood punishments for speaking out of turn. His cheeks burned red with anger, but the threat worked. With no wand of his own to reverse any incantation cast upon him, he was as powerless to resist her threats of punishment as he had been when he was a child. The stormy look on his face made it clear for all to see that this was a thought which he found positively infuriating. 

He twisted himself back round in his chair, slumped back with his arms folded, and allowed his mother to continue her work on his hair in furious silence.

Pleased with her victory, Walburga cleared her throat and turned her attention back to her task of taming her son's hair.

A quarter of an hour later, the majority of Sirius’s ruined locks were gone at last, and Walburga paused once again to assess her handiwork. Sirius’s hair now stopped just past his shoulders - precisely the length she had heard him describe as having wanted to imitate from those dreadful Muggle magazines, and a fair amount longer than she deemed appropriate for a dignified young wizard of his standing. 

Walburga had long-since accepted the fact that Sirius’s hair, like so many other aspects of him, was annoyingly identical to her own. Particularly thick and with something of a mind of its own. Early on in his childhood, she’d attempted to keep it restrained in a short, tidy style identical to the one she’d always kept Regulus’s finer hair in. But Sirius’s rebellious, wild mane would stick out stubbornly at odd angles and was so thick that it looked rather more untidy when short than if allowed some length to weigh itself down. As such, she’d had to compromise on keeping it trimmed to a length around the top of his neck - long enough to be kept neatly styled, but still short enough to be deemed acceptable according to her very precise standards. 

By the time her work was done and Sirius had tentatively lifted his fingertips to his head to get a feel for the new length of his hair, Walburga had begun to feel a reassuring sense of satisfaction at the sight of her son’s hair returned to the style she’d kept it in when he was a boy. 

A sentiment not shared by Sirius himself.

“What the bloody hell have you done to me?!” Sirius shouted, wide-eyed with shock as he realised how short his hair now was. He leaped up out of the chair, showering the floor with loose clippings of hair that fell from his shoulders as he rushed across the room to the gilded mirror on the wall above the fireplace.

“On what sodding _planet_ does this count as “not too short”?!” 

Walburga rolled her eyes and airily flicked her wand at the mess of hair on the floor, vanishing the lot. 

“Honestly, Sirius, there’s no need to overreact”

“Overreact?! You’ve hacked off my hair!” Sirius pulled at the strands of hair around his ears. “I told you, I wanted it left long!” 

“It wasn’t possible to leave it any longer than this” Walburga insisted. "And besides-” 

She strode across the room to stand before her enraged son. 

“You do have such lovely hair - when it’s properly looked after. You don’t want to ruin yourself, going about looking like an unkempt _stray_ , do you?”

She raised her hand and stroked it fondly down the side of his head. 

Sirius jerked his head out of her reach, turning an angry shade of red at the obvious quip at his newly-discovered Animagus form.

“That was precisely what I wanted,” he spat, bitterly. “And I _told_ you what I wanted before you started. Like hell this was the longest you could leave it. You did this on purpose!” 

Walburga’s nostrils flared at her son’s angry accusation. 

“Do not speak in that crude tone, Sirius Orion” Walburga warned, her irritation with him growing. “I will not allow you to go about looking like a common Muggle”

Sirius tossed his head, sweeping his newly-trimmed locks out of his face with an air of casual grace that three years of Azkaban hadn’t managed to squash out of him. After all, one could never truly be rid of what came natural.

“Oh please stop pretending this has anything to do with me looking like a Muggle” Sirius snapped venomously. “You aren’t fooling anyone. This is entirely down to the fact that you can’t stand to let me have my own way on anything - even my own bloody hair!” 

He gave his reflection another disgusted glance and turned away from the mirror. 

“I’ve had enough of this,” he seethed. He turned away from his mother and headed for the door. "I'm going upstairs"

"Good" 

Sirius paused midway across the room and looked back at her. Walburga was mildly amused to find him so perplexed to hear her agree with his intentions. 

"You ought to take a nap this afternoon. You'll need to be fresh for dinner - and you always did get irritable without a proper rest during the day" 

"I'm not a child!" Sirius retorted, clenching his fists. "I can function perfectly well on a decent night's sleep"

"But you have not had a decent night's sleep, have you?" 

Sirius paused. She'd caught him on a snag in his argument. 

"Go upstairs and rest" Walburga's words, previously a suggestion, were now clearly an order. "Take the sleeping draught. A fifth of the dose phial ought to give you a good few hours of uninterrupted rest"

Sirius swallowed thickly and glared - but did not argue. 

"I will be up to check on you later" Walburga continued, briskly. "And if I should discover you sleeping anywhere other than in your bed, as is right and proper, then I will supervise you every evening from now on to ensure that is where you _do_ sleep"

Sirius flushed anew. His shoulders tensed, his hackles raised, but he did not argue back. He turned away, silently, and fled the room, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Walburga smiled to herself. 

* * *

Half-past seven found Grimmauld Place in a state of activity it had not known in years. The air was thick with the luxurious smell of food wafting from the kitchen, the dining room chandelier was laden with fresh candles set ablaze, and the clattering sound of china rang through the halls as Kreacher laid out the best dinner plates, each one rimmed with gold and stamped in the centre with the Black family crest. 

In his bedroom on the topmost floor, Sirius stared at his reflection in the mirror. What stared back at him was an image he had long-since convinced himself he would never see again.

His newly-washed and cut hair hung perfectly round the base of his neck, with just a few slightly shorter locks framing his face. He had to admit that it did look a lot tidier - compared to what it had been, at least. His afternoon's sleep had diminished the shadows under his eyes. And with the sleeping draught having granted him a couple of hours of undisturbed sleep, he looked almost refreshed. An instance of having been proved right that he was sure his mother wouldn't waste an opportunity to gloat about.

But it was the clothes he was dressed in which he found the most disconcerting. The clothes he'd awoken after his sleep to find laid out on the chair beside his wardrobe, clearly stating that they were what he was to wear that evening. They were the final, cementing detail in the image of the person who stared back at Sirius in the mirror - an image he’d sworn he would never fulfil again, the night he turned his back on his family and this life forever all those years ago.

The set of rich, navy-blue evening robes he was dressed in were a set Sirius did not remember fondly. They brought back unpleasant memories of the gloomy birthday for which they had been a gift from his mother. His sixteenth birthday, and his last as a member of the Black family. 

“And it’s going to stay that way” Sirius said firmly to his reflection. 

“ _What_ is going to stay _which_ way, Sirius Orion?” 

Sirius’s head turned towards the sound of his mother’s voice. Walburga marched into the room, dressed in an elegant evening gown of deep burgundy, a heavy necklace of ruby-encrusted gold around her slender neck and an expectant look on her freshly-made-up face. 

“Nothing” Sirius replied, turning back towards his reflection. The delicate silver detailing on the lapels and sleeves of his robes shone in the flicker of the candlelight. 

Lord, how he’d hated these ridiculous robes from the day he’d first set eyes on them. 

From the corner of the mirror, he could see his mother’s reflection. There she stood, hands on hips, eyeing him with a look which said she was not satisfied with his answer. 

“Can’t you ever just knock and wait ‘til I say to come in?” Sirius asked, rolling his eyes as he tugged anxiously at his lapels.

“Why on earth would I do that?” 

“Because there’s this little concept which you might not be familiar with, though it’s actually rather popular. It’s called privacy” 

The lipsticked mouth of Walburga’s reflection curled upward into an amused smile which Sirius found instantly irritating. 

“Nonsense” she said, walking up to stand beside him. She steered him round by the shoulders to face her. Her eyes ran up and down him, inspecting him. “You are my son. You’ve no need for privacy from me” 

Before Sirius could reply, he was distracted by the feel of his mother’s hands running down the sleeves of his robes, smoothing out the already non-existent creases. 

“This set always did look particularly fine on you” she remarked, running her hand down the length of his sleeve. “Blue always did suit your complexion. And it sets off the black of your hair so nicely”

There was an obvious note of pride in her voice, a possessive sort of pride which made Sirius instantly feel self-conscious and uneasy. She spoke _of_ him, not _to_ him, as though he were a prized show horse - there to be shown-off by its lucky owner to an admiring crowd. 

“Leave off, will you?” Sirius shook his head away as Walburga attempted to smooth down a stray section of his hair. 

“The fit is reasonable, all things considered” Walburga continued, giving no indication that she’d heard him at all. She gazed down at the length of his robes thoughtfully. “We’ll need to lower the hemline a little, however. You’ve grown a few inches” 

“Hardly surprising” Sirius gave a moody snort. “I _was_ sixteen when you bought the bloody things, after all” 

If the memory of the unfortunate birthday on which Walburga had gifted her son the robes triggered any reaction in her mind, she gave no outward indication. She busily pulled out her wand from her skirt pocket and set about extending the hemline of his robes down to his ankles. A faint, shimmering light hovered around the material as her spell did its work, and Sirius looked down at the material. So impeccable was her work that the robes bore little visible evidence that they had been tampered with at all. 

His mother had always been known for her sharp skills when it came to household spells. 

“You look so like your father” 

His mother’s words were so quiet, so dream-like, that at first Sirius wondered if he’d imagined them. His chest seemed to tighten upon realising that she had indeed spoken aloud. He turned his head sharply to look at her, and found a look upon her face which he was quite certain he had never seen before. 

It was something of a mixture between admiration and regret. Both of which were emotions that Sirius was so unused to expecting from his mother than he found himself at a loss for how to react. 

He swallowed, and found the reflex unexpectedly painful, as though attempting to force down a stone lodged in his throat. 

“Let’s just-” he brushed away his mother’s hand which lingered against his arm. “-get this over with, shall we?” 

He forced his way past her, mildly surprised that she did not object to his leaving without dismissal, and left her alone in his bedroom. 

Sirius marched down the hallway, feeling the material of his robes billowing behind him in his haste, and fought desperately to try and reign in the growing wave of emotion building inside him. Walburga had not spoken to him of his father at all, thus far. All thought of Orion Black had been locked away, buried deep within Sirius’s mind for so long that he could scarcely remember the last time he’d thought of him. 

And now, as he furiously rubbed his eye with the palm of his hand to alleviate the tell-tale sting, Sirius remembered why he’d made it a firm rule not to think of his father, even long before Azkaban.

* * *

At quarter -to-eight on the dot, the drawing room fireplace erupted with bright green flames. Out of the flames stepped Arcturus Black, dressed in coal-black evening robes, a heavy, fur-lined cloak with a gold serpent-shaped clasp and a deep scowl which immediately fell to rest upon his grandson. 

Sirius stood beside his mother before the fireplace, a mirror of the countless times throughout his childhood that he’d been put on display in this spot ready to await the inspection of whichever guest was expected to step out of the flames. 

“Well?” said Sirius by way of greeting. He held up his arms, the material of his full sleeves hanging low like curtains. “Will I do, then?” 

Arcturus ignored his grandson’s impertinent tone and took several steps towards him, leaning heavily on his cane. Sirius hid his self-consciousness he felt under his grandfather’s iron gaze with a cocky, impatient look.

At last, Arcturus gave a huff of approval. 

“Presentable at last” he said. His eyes ran up and down Sirius’s form, starting with his newly-cut hair and running down the length of the heavy robes draping his thin frame. His face twisted into a thoughtful frown. “Definitely need to get a bit more meat back on those bones but you will suffice, for now” 

“A glowing review” Sirius replied sarcastically to his grandfather’s remarks. 

“We ought to go straight through,” said Walburga, briskly. “I imagine we’re all hungry” 

“That elf of yours had better have learned to thicken a soup properly, by now” said Arcturus as he led the way towards the dining room. “It was thin as dishwater more often than not, if memory serves” 

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” remarked Sirius as he trailed behind his grandfather. “Not going to get any meat back on my bones with dishwater- ah!” 

His sarcastic smirk vanished, replaced with an annoyed scowl directed at his mother as he clutched the spot on his arm where his mother’s wand had jabbed him with a short but sharp stinging hex.

“Behave” Walburga hissed under her breath. 

“Don’t I always?” 

Sirius quickly turned away to evade the aim of a potential second hex and hurried out of the room after Arcturus. 

If the Black patriarch had heard the exchange between mother and son right behind him, he gave no indication of it. 

* * *

“Stop picking at your food, Sirius Orion, and eat it properly” 

Sirius tightened his grip on his fork as it hovered over the chunks of beef he had been shuffling about his plate. 

Any enjoyment that the delicious food had given his growling stomach had been quickly evaporated once he'd caught sight of the eagle-eyed watch Walburga was keeping over him as the meal progressed through its courses. Every time Sirius glanced up at his mother sitting opposite him, Walburga's gaze seemed to be fixed intently on him rather than on her own food. She would watch him carefully as he took a bite, only looking away once she was satisfied that he'd swallowed it.

It was stifling. Throughout the salad and soup courses, Sirius had found himself growing ever more reluctant to eat under his mother's intense gaze.

By the time the three were halfway through the main course of roast beef and vegetables, his irritation had driven away most of his appetite. 

“I’m working on it” he mumbled, but continued to push the piece of beef around on his plate nonetheless. “There’s too much of it, anyway. Why have I got so much more than you?”

Sirius gestured across to his mother’s own plate, which did indeed contain significantly smaller helping of beef and vegetables than the amounts that had been heaped onto his own plate.

“Because it is good, nourishing food” Walburga said firmly, slicing her knife through a section of her own beef. “Which is precisely what you need at the moment. It’s to build your strength up”

“Fattening me up like a pig for slaughter, more like” 

Sirius shoved the chunk of beef he’d been toying with to the far end of his plate, all remaining enthusiasm for eating disappearing.

“You are free to phrase it in whichever way you please, boy, but the fact of the matter is that it is food that you need, and it is food that you will eat” 

Arcturus’s firm voice from the head of the table pulled Sirius’s attention towards him. The patriarch had been more or less silent throughout the meal so far, and the whole table with him by default - a state which the sharp finality of his words assured that it was one he wished to return to as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, Sirius never had been one for appeasing the wishes of others by default. 

“Well, it’s too much” he insisted, tossing down his fork. The silver clattered loudly against the china plate. Sirius felt a glimmer of satisfaction at the way his mother winced at the sound. “I can’t finish it” 

“Of course you can,” Walburga said firmly, setting down her knife and fork on her plate. “Now stop this ridiculousness at once. You’re behaving like a child” She took up her wine glass and took a sip. Her steely gaze remained fixed on Sirius over the golden rim of her glass. 

Sirius took up his own glass and took a gulp, annoyed by the definite watered-down taste of the wine. He sincerely doubted that the glasses of his mother and grandfather suffered from the same affliction.

 _Clearly they don't trust me not to cause a scene_ , he mused to himself as he forced down the wine. _Well, isn't that working out just wonderfully for them?_

“Well perhaps if you stopped treating me like one then you might actually get what you want” he snapped. He shot a disgusted glance towards his wine glass before glaring back at his mother to prove his point. “I know when I’ve had enough to eat, and I have” 

“Very well” Arcturus’s attention was focused down at his plate as he sawed his way through a roast potato. “Then you’ll sit there for however long it takes until you can finish it” 

He popped a piece of potato into his mouth and looked across the table at Sirius. His eyes practically glimmered challengingly. 

Sirius could feel his irritations growing. He glared daggers back at his grandfather. The pair’s identical grey eyes were locked on each other, each daring the other to blink first. 

In the end, it was Sirius who gave in. 

“Fine” he snapped. “Have it your way. Just don’t blame me when I throw the lot up all over the drawing room carpet later on” 

“Don’t talk of such things at the table” Walburga scolded. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she took up her knife and fork once again and focused her attention firmly downward at her food. "And in any case, I highly doubt that you will. I've ensured the food is not too rich for you"

Sirius turned from his mother to his grandfather. Arcturus had resumed work on his own food. Neither of them were paying Sirius any further attention. 

Why was that so irritating? 

He snatched up his fork and stabbed the chunk of beef on his plate. He slumped forward with his elbow against the table and his chin rested in his palm as he shoved the food into his mouth. 

Sirius peered upwards at his mother as he chewed. Her gaze was still fixed firmly down at his plate. He began silently counting the seconds until the inevitable moment when she would look up and bark at him to correct his posture. 

He swallowed the beef, mildly annoyed by the reminder of just how tasty the food was. A lifetime in service to a woman who would think nothing of ordering him to rap his own knuckles for an overcooked meat joint had made quite an expert cook out of Kreacher, and Sirius had forgotten just how perfectly the house elf knew to season a side of beef.

He immediately found himself wanting more. 

_Well at least it will shut the old man up,_ Sirius reasoned with himself as he shoved a second piece of beef into his mouth. 

“Sirius Orion-”

“Thirty-one seconds!” Sirius declared, sitting up straight as his mother’s scolding tone drew him out of his thoughts. “That’s got to be something of a record” 

After nearly an hour which felt more like an age, Sirius sighed with relief as Kreacher vanished their empty dessert plates. 

“Thank Merlin for that,” he said, tossing aside the napkin in his lap. “Right, I’ll be off then, if that’s alright with you” 

The moment he pushed back his chair away from the table, a sharp flick from his grandfather’s wand sent it sliding firmly back in again. Sirius briefly wondered how a man as stiff and old as his grandfather could whip out his wand so quick. 

“That is most certainly not alright with me” said Arcturus. “It seems all that time in Azkaban has dulled your table manners. You leave the table when you’re dismissed, and not a moment sooner”

Sirius rolled his eyes. 

“If you’d care to notice, we’ve finished eating and the plates are gone. If that doesn’t define the end of a meal, and therefore a time to leave, then I don’t know what is. Or are you eyes going in your old age?” 

“Be quiet, Sirius Orion!” Walburga hissed. Her expression was fierce, thought it softened to one which Sirius could almost call smug as she observed the way he flinched at her tone. “In any case, the meal may be over, but your business here is not”

Sirius felt his face pale as he recalled their earlier discussion.

“Business?” he scoffed dismissively. “What are you on ab-?”

“Don’t you have something to tell your grandfather, Sirius?” Walburga prompted, arching an eyebrow expectantly. 

Sirius stared across the table at her, his expression stony.

“No” 

From the head of the table, Arcturus let out a snort of bemusement. 

“If memory serves, a sudden lack of an impertinent reply from this particular whelp more often than not indicates that there is indeed something to be told, but that he’d rather not share it” he remarked. He leaned back in his chair and smiled - a gesture which did not spread far enough to warm the coldness in his eyes. “Well, then? Out with it, boy” 

Sirius clenched his jaw tightly shut. He looked at his mother, a look of betrayed hatred to which she had the audacity to not look the least bit guilty in response. On the contrary, Walburga sat bold upright with her hands folded in her lap and a look of confident expectation aimed directly at her son. 

Sirius looked away. He picked up his glass and took a gulp of wine, partly to buy himself a few precious seconds of thinking time and part to try and eek at least a drop of Dutch courage out of the disgraceful watered-down affair he’d been lumbered with. 

“What’s wrong, boy? Cat got your tongue?”

Sirius coughed and choked on a drop of wine at Arcturus’s unknowingly touchy remark.

“Not exactly” he muttered as he cleared his throat. He stared down at his lap. He didn’t think he could bear to look at the no doubt triumphant smirk on Walburga’s face at his reaction to his grandfather’s unintentionally touchy words. 

“Perhaps we ought to withdraw to the drawing room” Walburga suggested. At the sound of her surprisingly even tone, Sirius looked up. His mother’s face was blank, the very image of composure. 

“Yes, let's” Arcturus agreed, getting to his feet. “Whatever this great secret is, one feels a brandy may be needed before learning of it, if it concerns him”

“Charming” Sirius murmured as he trailed after his grandfather and mother out of the dining room.

Sat around the roaring fire in the drawing room, one could excuse the scene for one of pleasant, family domesticity, on first glance. But upon closer inspection, each of the three wore a distinct frown; Arcturus of cautious expectation, Walburga of stern warning, Sirius of determined stubbornness. 

Once Kreacher had served each of them with a glass of brandy and had bowed out of the room, Sirius lifted his glass to his nose and gave a sniff. 

“Seems to be full strength, this time" he remarked. "Unless you’ve somehow managed to cast a spell on the glass that waters this down until it’s piss-weak as well?”

“Watch your tone, boy!” Arcturus barked from the armchair across from his grandson. “Now, come on, out with it. What is this great secret you have to tell? I suppose it concerns the great matter?” 

“If by ‘great matter’ you mean the reason I ended up in prison, then yes, I suppose so”

“It’s a little more certain than that, Sirius” Walburga added pointedly from the sofa directly before the fireplace, between the two wizards. 

“Will the pair of you cease speaking in damned riddles and tell me what in Salazar’s name is going on?” Arcturus snapped loudly, giving his cane a firm thump against the floor. 

“I’m an Animagus” Sirius blurted out. The mixture of nerves and irritation churning away inside him had finally become too much to stomach, and the words shot out of him like the top of a kettle left to boil for too long. 

He took a deep, steadying drink from his brandy glass. 

“Happy now?” 

The gnarled hand gripping Arcturus’s cane began to shake. His pale face reddened, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

“You’re a _what?_ ” he seethed. 

“Christ, do I really have to say it again?” Sirius slumped back in his chair, swilling the brandy in his glass in a bored manner. His reflection stared back at him. Even mingled in the flicker of the flames, he could see the unease in his own eyes, clear as day. “I’m an Animagus. That’s the big secret”

Now he’d done it. Any minute now, his grandfather's notorious temper which Sirius had always seemed to have a special talent for provoking, would rear its ugly head and tear into him. He was going to need another brandy, Sirius mused to himself as he took another gulp.

“And when precisely did this… development, come about?”

Sirius was taken aback by how composed Arcturus’s voice was. Calm, yes, though no less dangerous. It was a talent that all of his family, save himself, seemed to have a natural ability to pull off with irritating prowess. 

Well, except her, of course. 

Sirius’s gaze wandered in the direction of his mother, who was watching the exchange between the two of them with careful attention. 

“There’s no point looking to your mother for help out of this” Arcturus’s snarl drew Sirius’s attention back to him. “Now, give me the details, you little whelp. When did you accomplish this feat?” 

Sirius sighed. He really was going to have to tell the whole tale again. The old man wouldn’t rest until he’d heard the lot, and Sirius found he rather wanted to get to bed at a somewhat reasonable hour. Just a few short hours with Arcturus Black had proven rather exhausting. 

“I was fifteen” he murmured, staring into the fireplace. “End of Fourth Year, at Hogwarts” 

Sirius didn’t need to look up at his grandfather to know that the old wizard was livid. 

“Fifteen?!” 

Arcturus rose to his feet and marched across the room to stand before Sirius’s chair. The old man in his somewhat hunched state was easily a few inches shorter than his grandson, though in Sirius’s sat-down position, he seemed to tower over the younger man imposingly. 

And somehow, Sirius couldn’t quite bring himself to stand. 

“I presume I am correct when I say that your being an Animagus is directly linked to Pettigew also being one?” 

An instant change came over Sirius at the mention of the rat’s name. His blood ran cold, his hackles raised, and his senses sharpened. If he’d been Padfoot, he would have growled on reflex.

“That rat would never have managed it if it weren’t for me” Sirius’s voice was low. Low and harsh. 

Arcturus let out a short laugh. 

“Is that so?” he asked, mockingly. “I suppose you think yourself rather clever, then, do you?”

“So I’ve been told” 

“Well certainly not by me” The thin, humorous veil masking Arcturus’s anger was pulled away, discarded in one lightning-quick move. “You’re foolish. A foolish, insolent, reckless idiot. Only you would be stupid enough to attempt such a dangerous feat unsupervised - and whilst still at school!” 

Arcturus paused to suck in a deep breath. He looked away from his scowling grandson, staring into the flames as he shook his head firmly before turning back to Sirius. 

“Suppose you’d been caught!” Arcturus continued his tirade. “Were you clever enough to think of that, hmm? A Black, expelled from Hogwarts… The shame!”

“We were careful-” 

“Silence!” 

Sirius flinched - partially at the sound of his grandfather’s fury, and partially due to the drops of spittle fired towards him as the old man roared down at him. 

“I don’t give a damn how careful you were” Arcturus seethed. “The fact still remains that you were selfish enough to risk this family’s reputation for your own folly. Attempting dangerous magic, beyond your years-” 

“Well it clearly wasn’t quite so beyond my years, considering I was successful” 

The weight of Arcturus’s scorn was finally too much for Sirius to bear. A wave of energy overcame him, spurring him on to fight back at last. 

"Oh?" Arcturus’s eyebrows raised, an expectant look on his creased face. "Successful, were you? Well then, out with it, boy. Transform" 

"No," said Sirius. A feeble attempt at resistance, but he’d be damned if he didn’t go down fighting.

"Sirius, do as your grandfather says" Walburga’s stern voice only succeeded in ruffling Sirius’s feathers further.

"No" he snapped. "I don't feel like it" 

Sirius drained the rest of his brandy and slammed the glass down on the side table. He folded his arms across his chest in a defensive position.

"I don't give a damn what you _feel_ like, boy” Arcturus glared down at his grandson threateningly. “I've told you to transform, now do it" 

"I’m not one of your bloody house elves. You can’t _order_ me to do anything”

Arcturus let out a haughty huff of disbelief.

"On the contrary, as head of this family I assume command over any and all _insolent whelps_ within it-" 

Sirius winced automatically at the term 'whelp', a move which did not go unnoticed by Arcturus’s eyes - surprisingly keen for a wizard of his years. On the contrary, Sirius noted with dread that the patriarch's grey gaze suddenly seemed to glimmer with liveliness in anticipation. 

"-and I may demand whatever I require of them” Arcturus continued. “And what I require is to see you transform. Now, get on with it" 

"Sirius Orion-" 

"Alright!" Sirius snapped, jumping to his feet. "I'll do it. Just- back off a bit" 

“Oh?” Arcturus cocked his head with bemused curiosity, though he stepped back a few paces nonetheless. “And what, pray tell, do you transform into that requires such space?” 

“A honey badger” 

From the sofa, Walburga frowned deeply at what she knew to be a blatant lie.

“Indeed?” Arcturus looked cautiously curious, clearly not entirely convinced. “A rather small creature”

“Perhaps” Sirius couldn’t keep the corner of his mouth from creased upward. “But they do hunt snakes” 

The bruise that the butt of his grandfather’s cane had undoubtedly left on his shin, even through the thick material of Sirius’s robes, was worth the brief moment of enjoyment Sirius got from the irritated look on Arcturus’s face as the joke dawned upon him. 

“I’ve had more than enough of your ridiculous remarks for one day, boy” Arcturus practically growled. “Now stop this dithering, and transform!” 

“Alright, alright” Sirius conceded with a sigh. He closed his eyes and focused his mind, digging deep inside himself for the power to transform. He envisioned his four legs, his tail, a coat of thick, black fur and the heightened senses of a dog.

“My my. I must admit, that _is_ remarkable”

Arcturus’s voice rang with a sharp, new intensity through Sirius’s head. He felt his ears twitch as every minute sound in the room suddenly blared loud and clear through them. He gave his head a shake, feeling the fur around his neck rustle. He always needed a moment or two to acclimatise to the far more superior hearing of his dog form.

He opened his eyes - Padfoot’s eyes - and blinked hard as he adjusted to what he saw. In the far more limited canine colour palette, even familiar surroundings looked slightly alien for a moment or two.

“I can’t say I’m surprised, of course. What with the name you were granted, I expected nothing less” 

Sirius’s attention fixed on the old wizard stood before him. A mixture of smells flooded through his nose as he looked up at the man. The information coded within them swam through his canine mind.

_Pipe tobacco. Old parchment. Cunning. ENEMY._

He growled on instinct. His crouched low, his hackles raised, ready for a fight.

"Sirius Orion Black! Do not growl at your grandfather" 

Sirius’s attention diverted away from Arcturus to across the room to where Walburga had risen from her seat.

_Rosewater. Silk. Anger. Mother?_

He instinctively found himself backing down, instantly cowed by _that_ voice. He sat back on his haunches, his ears pressed flat to his head, and let out a low whine.

Above him, Arcturus gave a snort of amusement.

"Really, now. Such a potentially impressive-looking creature and you elect to ruin it by putting on the image of a sulky mutt" . 

Sirius glared, as well as a dog could glare, and pressed his ears further back against his head.

"The errant pup within finally reveals himself” Arcturus mused thoughtfully. “I must say, that really is a rather impressive specimen. A tad scrawny yet, but still, no matter. Nothing that can't be fixed" 

Sirius burned indignantly. The old man was commenting on him as though he were one of his prized crups!   
  
He let out a sharp bark and sprang to his feet, breaking into a trot as he headed for the door. He was done here.

The drawing room door slammed shut in his face. 

"You were not dismissed," said Arcturus, sharply. "Come back here" 

Sirius hesitated for a moment, considering. Why didn’t he just turn back, open the door and get out of here? 

_Because the old man won’t let up until he’s done with you. Just do as he says, it will get rid of him faster._

Sirius skulked back across the room and shrank into an inelegant hunched sitting position.

"Don't look so sullen, it's unbecoming," said Arcturus. 

The wizard took a step forward towards the dog and Sirius flinched, ears twitching in a moment of uncertainty.

“Stand up” Arcturus ordered. “Let me get a proper look at you”

Sirius obeyed. His eyes followed Arcturus with distrust as he circled around him, peering closely at his dog form. 

“Remarkable size” he could hear the old man murmuring in a low voice to himself. “And what would be an impressive coat, with proper grooming” 

Sirius suddenly realised that his coat actually felt rather lighter than it had the last time he could recall transforming, in Azkaban. He no longer felt quite so weighed down by the thick tangles of his fur. Most likely the result of his mother hacking away the matts, he reasoned. He supposed that the afternoon’s dreaded hair cut had proven useful in some way, at least.

He was yanked abruptly out of his thoughts by the feeling of fingers wrapping tightly around his snout.

He jerked away from Arcturus with a sharp yip, snapping at the air. 

“Don’t you dare snap at me, mutt” Arcturus snarled, threateningly. “Come back here and let me have a proper look at you”

Sirius whined indignantly, but did as he was bade. He willed himself to remain calm as he endured his grandfather’s inspection. Arcturus tilted his head to and fro, examining it from all angles. Sirius rather impressed himself with the extent of his own tolerance, but when the old man tried to lift his lip up to get a look at his teeth, Sirius had well and truly reached his limit. 

“Do you mind?!” he snapped barely a second after he had lurched backwards out of Arcturus's grasp and transformed back into human form. “I’m not one of your bloody show crups!”

Arcturus, to his surprise, did not match his anger. On the contrary, he looked rather bemused by his grandson’s outraged display.

"For once I cannot disagree with you” he said. “You would make a terrible shower. You'd never hold still on the podium" 

From the centre of the room where Walburga had been watching, hawk-eyed, there came a slight chuckle. 

Sirius’s ears burned as the noise hit him as sharply as if he’d still had his canine hearing. 

"Well I'm glad you both find this so amusing but I'm afraid I fail to see the punch line myself” Sirius turned away from them both and marched towards the door. “So, if that was all-”

"That was not all" Arcturus snapped. “Come back here” 

  
Sirius sighed and walked back across the room as sullenly in human form as he had as a dog.  
  
“Tell me - precisely how long were you intending on keeping this secret from us?" 

Sirius mumbled something unintelligible. 

"Speak up, boy"

"I didn't see how it was relevant" 

"You didn't see how it was relevant?"

A tense silence filled the room, broken eventually by a displeased snort from the elder wizard.

"Truly, boy, what is the _matter_ with you?” Arcturus asked, exasperated. “Are you really that much of an imbecile that you cannot see how much your fate rests on every scrap of information we can gather?"

"Well given that my fate rests entirely on how I choose to plead and that my decision to plead guilty remains unchanged, I hardly see how anything I choose to keep private is of any value to you" 

“Sirius-!” 

Walburga’s outraged shout was drowned out by Arcturus’s own fury.

"You insolent, ungrateful little-!"

“Oh give it a bloody rest, will you?” Sirius shouted back. “I’ve made my mind up, and nothing you can say is going to persuade me to change it. And you may as well forget about asking me to transform again, because it’s not happening. Padfoot is mine, the only bit of privacy I have left in this Godforsaken prison of a-”

“Padfoot?” Arcturus asked, sharply. “Who is Padfoot?” 

Sirius paused, caught out. 

“It’s just- A name. A name for when we-” 

“You _named_ your Animagus form?” Arcturus arched an eyebrow, amused.

“Yes” Sirius replied, defensively. “What’s wrong with that?” 

“If I didn’t believe you were telling the truth when you told me you acquired this skill when you were a child, I certainly do now” 

Sirius felt his ears redden as Arcturus chuckled. 

“Might I assume that Pettigrew also had a name for his Animagus form?”

“We all did” Sirius clenched his fists hard in an attempt to control the rage which that name never failed to spark within him.

“ _All?_ Who else was involved in this idiotic scheme?” 

“The Potter boy” Walburga added.

“James” Sirius hissed. “Will you stop calling him that?” 

“Mind your tone, boy” Arcturus warned. “You are in no position to be giving cheek, with what you’ve done” 

“What I’ve done?!” Sirius was well and truly at the end of his tether. “All I’ve done is elect to keep private something which quite frankly has nothing to do with you, or this poxy bloody trial you insist on wasting your money and effort on!”

He’d done it now. Arcturus had turned an ugly shade of red. His usually cold eyes were aflame with anger. He took one long step forward and withdrew his wand from his robes, brandishing at his grandson with a noise halfway between a roar and a growl. 

Sirius flinched away, bracing himself for whatever was to come.

“Enough!” 

The loud, piercing shout from Walburga drew the attention of both men away from each other and towards her. She stood, poised like a cat prepared to pounce with her own wand brandished. Not, Sirius realised with surprise, at him.

At Arcturus. 

Like a moment frozen in time, none of them moved for several seconds. When, at last, Arcturus broke the suspense by lowering his wand, the action seemed to break both Walburga and Sirius each out of their own frozen states. 

"I think-" says Walburga, her voice icy as she slowly replaced her own wand. "That is quite enough for one day. We will discuss this matter further another time. Sirius-"

Sirius meekly looked up at her, feeling rather self-conscious at having been seen cowering before his aged grandfather.

"It is time you went to bed. You are tired"

Walburga’s voice was firm. It left no room for any suggestion of an argument to be had. 

In any case, Sirius had had rather enough argument for one day. Both his body and his head ached. 

"Fine" he said, simply. "Goodnight" 

Without waiting for a reply from his mother, and taking care to deliberately avoid his grandfather's furious gaze, Sirius strode from the room with his head held defiantly high.

It was only once he had arrived back in the sanctuary of his bedroom with the door firmly shut behind him that he allowed himself to take a deep, deflating breath out. He leaned against the door, feeling his hands begin to shake as he processed the evening’s events. 

He loathed himself for giving up his Animagus secret to Arcturus. His mother knowing about Padfoot was one thing, but his grandfather was another entirely. He burned with indignation when he recalled how Arcturus had looked at him - had _inspected_ him like one of his damned show dogs - and vowed to himself never to submit to such a thing ever again. 

_If he wants to do it again, you know he will. There’s no escaping it._

Sirius ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the short, silky locks with frustration the voice of reason ran through his mind. 

_After all, what are you going to do - run away?_

Sirius let out a loud groan and flung himself down onto the bed. He stared up at the canopy, the same one he had stared up at countless times throughout his teenage years after a row with his family. His eyes felt heavy. He was worn out. He wanted nothing more than to retreat back inside the safe, simple mind of Padfoot and curl up under the bed for the night. 

Remembering his mother’s threat to stand over him every night and watch him take the sleeping draught, however, he quickly realised that this particular escape was out of the question. The last possible escape. 

It may have been eight years since he’d last lay here, silently fuming after what he viewed as the latest injustice against him, but Sirius felt just as keenly the sense that the four walls of the house were closing in on him, the ceiling lowering and the floor rising up - leaving him impossibly trapped. 

Except this time, the only escape led directly from this one prison straight to another. 

And for the life of him, Sirius couldn’t decide which of the two was worse than the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the umpteenth time, I'm sorry this update took so long. I cannot promise regular updates, but I can promise that I take my time with them because I want them to be as high quality as I can make them (and I'll still re-read them and wish I'd done something differently months later lol). 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this latest instalment, please feel free to let me know your thoughts in the comments ^^ 
> 
> Chat to me on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mariekavanagh


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interrogation over breakfast leaves Walburga reeling, Sirius encounters an unwelcome reminder from the past, and Crouch sets out on on a quest for information - from an unlikely source.

**19th March 1984**

Walburga glanced across the dining room to the clock on the fireplace mantle. Five minutes to eight. She had sent the elf up to Sirius’s bedroom at half-past seven to ensure he was awake and make it clear that he was expected to be dressed and downstairs promptly at eight o’clock for breakfast. He had precisely five minutes to follow through on her orders. 

She took a deep sip of her strong, black coffee. The thought of having to go marching up to her son’s bedroom to force him out of bed in time for breakfast was none too appealing - it never had been - but if Sirius Orion had intentions of falling back into his old teenage habit of attempting to waste away the morning in bed, Walburga was prepared to to whatever she had to.. 

Thankfully, she was spared the ordeal of having to head upstairs in search of her son. At exactly one minute to eight, Sirius entered the dining room, wearing the bleary-eyed frown of one who clearly would have rather still been asleep - and his pyjamas and dressing gown. 

“Good morning to you too, Mother” Sirius offered sarcastically in reply to his mother’s silent, taken-aback stare. He took his seat at the place laid out for him at the table, sitting directly opposite his mother. 

To the side of them both, the chair at the head of the table - the traditional seat of the father of the house - lay glaringly empty.

Sirius slumped forward, resting his head lazily in his palm, his elbow dug into the table top. A slobbish posture, clearly put on to provoke. Beneath their sleepy haze, his eyes glimmered with a far-too-familiar challenging glint. 

Walburga refused to indulge her son with the response he clearly craved.

“Sit up properly, Sirius Orion” 

Somewhat to her surprise, Sirius did not argue with her, nor did he question her muted response his his obvious display of rebellion. Silently, and with a moody expression, he slowly hauled himself up into a more appropriate posture.

Walburga lifted her coffee cup to take another sip - and to hide the victorious smirk spreading across her face. In times gone by she’d have surely risen to the bait her son had thrown her, and would have insisted he return to his room immediately to change. 

But Walburga required answers of her son Answers she was unlikely to acquire if he would be allowed to retreat back up to his room in a furious sulk. 

Sirius looked down at the empty table before him. 

“Wouldn’t mind a cup of that myself” He nodded to the coffee tray set up beside Walburga. 

“Breakfast will be along any moment” Walburga replied, dismissively. 

As if on cue, the dining room door swung open and in walked Kreacher, his arms laden with a silver breakfast tray. An almost identical tray floated along beside him, save for the fact that it also bore a teapot, cup and saucer.

“Your breakfast, Mistress” The elf gave a respectful bow of his head as he walked over to stand before her.

Walburga noted with a hint of irritation that he did not acknowledge Sirius’s presence with the same level of respect that he was always careful to afford her.

Irksome, insolent creature.

“No, no” she said sharply as the elf attempted to lay the tray in his arms down in front of her. “Serve Master Sirius first”

For a fraction of a second, she almost thought she could see a hint of a hesitation in the elf’s movements, but thankfully for his sake, he did not dare to disobey her direction. He gave another silent bow of his head and shuffled around the table to stand beside Sirius, sending the floating tray downward to rest in front of him.

“Breakfast for the young Master” Kreacher muttered in his forcibly humble tone. 

Sirius did not reply, simply shot the elf a look of obvious distaste from the corner of his eye as he reached out and removed the silver dome covering his plate. 

“Well, this is a treat” Sirius remarked as he observed the plateful of toast and scrambled eggs accompanied by a small bowl of chopped melon. “All out of porridge, are we?” 

“I can have the elf prepare some, if that is what you would prefer” Walburga quipped as she removed the cover of her own food - an almost identical meal, save for the lack of toast. She had little stomach for much food in the morning.

“I’ll spare him the trouble” Sirius wrinkled his nose in distaste at the thought of the dreaded porridge. “Wouldn’t mind a bit of bacon to go with it, though”

“One step at a time” replied Walburga. “We wouldn’t want you to overdo it before you’re yet used to rich foods, would we?”

Sirius’s cocky expression faded, but he chose not to retaliate. 

At last, he seems to be learning to pick his battles, Walburga mused to herself as she speared a forkful of eggs. 

“Oi, hang on a minute. What is _that?_ ” asked Sirius as he stared at the steaming, pale green liquid that he’d just poured from his teapot.

“It is green tea”

Sirius stared at his cup in disbelief for a moment before jealously eyeing his mother’s cup of black coffee.

“Bagged the last of the coffee for yourself, then, did you?” 

“Don’t talk nonsense, Sirius Orion” Walburga replied dismissively, forcing herself to focus on her breakfast in spite of her growing urge to snap at him to be silent.

“Come on, be reasonable!” Sirius argued back. “You can’t seriously expect me to start the day without coffee”

“Absolutely, I do. For now, at least. You aren’t yet back to your full strength, the caffeine will prove too much for you. You’ll only get overexcited with all that extra energy” 

Sirius was far from convinced.

“What, so all I get is this muck, then?”

“It is not _muck,_ Sirius Orion. Green tea contains many health benefits. It will help you regain your strength” 

“As if your cocktail of potions isn’t enough on that score already” Sirius scoffed. He picked up his teacup and grimaced at the steaming tea before setting it back down with a tad more force than necessary, sending the liquid sloshing over the edge of the cup. He slouched back in his seat and looked away from his breakfast, staring off into the distance.

Walburga took a dainty sip from her own cup of coffee. 

“Oh? Suddenly you’ve decided you approve of my medicinal efforts after all?” 

“I didn’t say that” 

“Well, I had been considering the thought of allowing you to stop the nutrition tonic in a day or two,” Walburga placed her cup back onto the table with a thoughtful sigh. “But of course, that would depend entirely on your being sensible enough to accept an appropriate diet by way of replacement” 

Sirius Orion had many natural talents, of that his mother had always been proudly aware, but the ability to mask his thoughts had never been one of them. She could see as clear as day the cogs of his mind at work as he struggled with the decision of whether or not to concede the fight.

Walburga hid her approving smile behind a bite of her eggs as Sirius finally snatched up his cup and took a sip of his tea - a smile which melted into a bemused smirk when his face broke into what could only be considered a childish grimace. 

“You’ll get used to the taste,” she told him. “Perhaps you may even grow to like it” 

“I doubt it,” said Sirius shortly as he snatched up a piece of toast and ripped off a corner, chewing roughly to take the taste away. “Even the Animagus potion wasn’t as rank as that” 

Walburga frowned, though she wasn’t certain whether it was due to her son’s careless table manners or the reminder of his illegal dabbling in advanced magic whilst still at school. 

“How apt you should raise that particular subject again” she remarked as she scooped up a forkful of eggs. “I have some more questions for you regarding your new... ability” 

Sirius looked up in alarm.

“What about, exactly?” he asked, taking another nibble on the corner of his toast - an attempt so flimsy at feigning innocence that it was almost laughable. 

Except Walburga Black was in no mood for laughter. 

“About the circumstances I found upon entering your bedroom yesterday morning, Sirius Orion” she replied, coldly. She placed her knife and fork neatly down on her plate and folded her hands in her lap, clearly in no further mood for false pleasantries. 

Sirius looked uneasy. 

“I don’t know what you mean” 

“I’m quite sure you do” Walburga was clearly unconvinced. “So by your reckoning, my entering your bedroom to find a _dog_ cowering under the bed with the window flung wide open before the winter is fully behind us was a perfectly acceptable state of affairs?”

Sirius’s eyes flickered with unease, but he held firm. His toast had fallen carelessly from his grasp, half-eaten. 

“Eat your breakfast, Sirius” Walburga ordered.

“I’ve already told _both_ of you all there is to know about it,” Sirius snapped, his expression darkening at the vague mention of his grandfather - but he obediently snatched up the toast and tore off another chunk of toast with his teeth. “We were fifteen and it was a laugh, that’s all there is to-”

“I remember perfectly well what you said yesterday” Walburga snapped impatiently, frowning as Sirius sent a spray of bread crumbs spilling from his mouth onto the table. Had her years spent drilling appropriate table manners into him been for nothing? “I am not referring to that particular element of the matter. What I am far more concerned with at this moment is precisely why any sane person would see fit to sleep on the floor instead of a perfectly good bed, and with the window wide open. Drink your tea” 

Sirius let out a laugh which failed to reach his eyes as he drained the rest of his tea in one large, enduring gulp.

“Well in all fairness, the state of my sanity has a history of being questioned by various members of this family, if memory serves” He hid his grin behind his hand as he wiped it across his mouth.

“Sirius Orion!”

“Alright, alright” Sirius rolled his eyes, the image of careless insolence - but his mother’s trained eye did not miss the way he tensed at the sharpness of her tone.

“Now, tell me the truth,” Walburga ordered. “Why were you sleeping under the bed?”

Sirius had no further sarcastic quips to offer. His smile faded. He sighed and tossed the final corner of his toast back onto the plate.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, staring down at his food. 

Walburga couldn’t have been less convinced if she tried. 

“You never could manage a convincing lie” she stated as she took out her wand and directed the pot of green tea to refill Sirius’s cup. Her son glared at it irritably - but did not protest. “Not to me, at least”

A flash of annoyance at the unspoken order to accept the second cup crossed Sirius’s face, before being replaced by the same look of ease as he met his mother’s stern gaze. 

“It’s just-” Sirius paused for a moment to consider his words. He ran a hand through his newly-cropped hair, thinking. “Easier” 

“Easier?” Walburga’s fingers drummed on the table top impatiently. 

“It’s easier to sleep like that” Sirius’s gaze remained fixed downward. “On the floor. As a dog” 

Walburga gave herself a moment to try and process these absurd words which she was quite sure she had heard correctly, but somehow just couldn’t seem to accept. 

“How so?” she asked, quietly. “What could one possibly have to gain by electing to sleep as an animal, as opposed to one’s proper form?”

“It’s not a case of gaining anything, simply of keeping hold of what you’ve got left” Sirius spoke in a low, dark voice. “I could hide inside my Animagus form. There’s less for the dementors to steal in the mind of a dog”

Walburga observed, silently, the unpleasant change which came over her son as he recalled his experiences in Azkaban. Sirius's eyes fell away from her, returning to stare at the plate once again. His face was empty, devoid of all emotion.

He was certainly long-past bothering to attempt to show any interest in his food.

“In Azkaban you’ve got nothing except who you are. And if you lose hold of that that - if you let them take it from you, you won’t last long”

Walburga felt all the warmth drain from her body as her son alluded to the dreadful fate he had come so close to falling victim of.

"They can't get to me as much, as a dog. There's less to take from an animalistic mind. It keeps your human self hidden, to an extent" Sirius continued, unprompted. “As for the bed, it’s too… soft. I’m not used to it” 

If Walburga hadn’t been so preoccupied with attempting to make sense of all that Sirius told her, she’d have been fascinated by how uncharacteristically subdued - how downright uncomfortable - her son looked. 

“It’s just easier to sleep on the ground, now. After so long. And the room was too warm. You don’t-” 

Sirius let out a shudder, as though the mere mention of the dreadful cold that Walburga sometimes swore she could still feel herself had sent a cold shiver down his spine. 

“You don’t ever really feel warm in Azkaban, even in the summer. Except it’s never really summer in Azkaban. In the end you get used to the cold. You have to. Or else you-”

“Stop it!” 

The sharpness of Walburga’s words cut through the air like glass as she sprang to her feet.

Sirius flinched, his eyes darting around the room for a moment as he snapped out of a daze that he didn’t seem to have realised he’d sunken into. Emotion returned to his eyes - confusion with a flicker of fear - as he looked up at his mother. 

Walburga’s breath shuddered as she fought to control the cocktail of anger and disgust at what she’d heard rising within her. Slowly, she lowered herself back down into her seat, smoothed her skirts, and dealt her son a stern look of utter composure.

It was painful to hear her son talk of such things. A deep, bruising pain like a blow to the stomach which throbbed within her more intensely with each of his words that reached her ears. To think that her son, her firstborn child, was more comfortable sleeping on the cold, hard floor…

“I shan’t hear another word of this nonsense” she said firmly as she busied herself with pouring herself another helping of coffee. The china pot shook slightly in her wand’s unsteady grasp. Truly, she’s lost all desire for any more refreshment, but the action gave her an outlet for her restless hands, if nothing else. “I’ve heard quite enough on the matter” 

She took a sip, forgoing a cooling blow beforehand. The hot, strong liquid seared its way down her throat - a strangely comforting sensation in this moment of high emotion. 

Opposite her, Sirius seemed to be finding the same odd comfort in his own cup. He didn’t even pull a face as he swallowed down the green tea.

Neither of them spoke for a minute or so. Every few moments, each would steal a hesitant glance across the table at the other, as though checking to see if the other was looking at them. Neither mother nor son seemed to be able to summon the words worthy of breaking the silence between them.

It was Walburga who finally spoke first. 

“Your grandfather will be here again this evening for dinner” she said, picking up her knife and fork and delicately scraping up the last of her eggs. “You ought to have a proper rest this afternoon, to ensure you are at your best before he arrives”

“I’m fi-”

“You are _not_ fine!” 

Walburga surprised even herself with the force with which her words left her. Seeing the startled look on Sirius’s face, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to regain her composure.

“You need to rest, Sirius Orion” she said, sharply. “Properly”

A rebellious flicker lit up in Sirius’s eyes - a flicker which Walburga, by both nature and, indeed, habit, was immediately challenged to snuff out.

“Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear,” She leaned forward intently, capturing his gaze from across the table with an almost magnetic pull. “There is to be no more talk of sleeping on cold, hard floors - as a dog, or otherwise. I forbid it. From now on you will sleep only in a properly-made and suitably-warmed bed”

Sirius attempted to speak, but it must surely have only been a token protest at best, for he immediately closed his mouth again as his mother cut him cleanly off. 

“I _said,_ I forbid it,” she repeated, firmly. “And you will take the sleeping draught regularly, as well. If you cannot sleep unaided, then the draught is a far more suitable solution than your current proposed solution” 

“Don’t need it” Sirius mumbled - a pathetic, childish excuse which even he did not sound convinced of, cemented by the way he sat, slumped back in his seat, staring off to the side, far more the image of one on the brink of conceding defeat than putting up a fight. 

“Given what you yourself have told me this afternoon, and given that you look as if you’ve hardly slept, you can hardly expect me to believe that you are in any fit state to judge what is best for you”

Sirius did not reply. He continued to look at the wall, down into his lap, anywhere except at his mother. Perhaps he’d finally learned to identify a fruitless fight against her, Walburga wondered - or perhaps he was simply too tired to continue resisting. Either way, she was determined to eliminate the latter in favour of cultivating the former. 

Setting down her knife and fork on her empty plate, Walburga stood up and strode silently around the table. Sirius’s head lifted at the sound of the movement and his eyes followed her until she was stood right beside him.

Walburga firmly grasped her son’s chin in her hand and tilted his head up to look at her. Rebellion still burned bright in his eyes, but behind it, hidden for all beside his mother’s trained eye, he looked tired. Dark circles cast shadows beneath his sunken eyes, contributing to the gauntness of his already-hollow face. Confirming, to her immense irritation, that her son had not obeyed her command to take the sleeping draught last night.

“You will take the sleeping draught for as long as I deem it necessary for the good of your health”

A fresh spark of protest crossed Sirius’s face, and his mother tightened her grip on his jaw before he had a chance to form an argument.

“If I find that you have been forgoing what is best for you, so help me, I will stand over you each night myself and ensure that you do take it. Do I make myself clear?” 

Sirius swallowed once, then slowly nodded as much as his mother’s hold would allow. His expression had softened somewhat. How quickly he had given in, Walburga mused privately to herself. One could almost believe he’d wanted to lose - but his mother knew better.

Satisfied, she released him from her hold, her hand lingering on his face for just a second longer than necessary before she backed away. 

“Finish your food” Walburga ordered, nodding to Sirius’s half-finished toast and untouched eggs and fruit. 

“I’m never going to finish all this,” Sirius insisted. “It’s far too early for so much food”

“Nonsense” Walburga waved away his argument. “You’ve been without a proper, nutritious breakfast for three years. You need proper food and that is what you shall eat”

“You can’t _make_ me eat” Sirius shot back, irritably. “What are you going to do, force it down my throat?”

“Kreacher!”

A split second later, the ever-faithful house elf appeared at her side.

“Yes, Mistress?” 

“Wait here with Master Sirius until he has finished his breakfast,” Walburga ordered. “Do not let him leave until he had cleared his plate, and finished his tea”

“Of course, Mistress” Kreacher gave a humble bow. 

“Oh, and one more thing-” 

The elf’s ears flip-flopped as his head snapped up eagerly. 

“I expressly forbid you from obeying any and all orders given to you by my son”

Sirius’s mouth fell open in stunned disbelief.

“You can’t do that!” 

Walburga shot a sharp glare down at her son. 

“On the contrary, I think you will find that I can '' she replied, a mere slither of triumph leaking through into her words. “I will not have you using the elf to manipulate your way around my orders. Or did you think I’d forgotten your little trick with the bed covers yesterday morning?”

To his credit, her son did not shrink under her withering gaze. 

“Excuse me for being of the opinion that holding someone in bed against their will is inhumane treatment” he seethed - but he snatched up his discarded fork from his plate, nevertheless.

Walburga stood beside her son, watching carefully until she had seen him swallow a mouthful of food before giving a silent, approving nod and heading towards the door. 

“I shall be in the parlour” she informed Kreacher. “In case I am… required”

The elf gave a humble nod and bow of farewell before resuming his watch upon his young charge.

Once certain that her son was too preoccupied with scooping up a second forkful of eggs, his fork clanging angrily against the china to match his thunderous expression, Walburga treated herself to a triumphant smile as she observed him from the doorway.

* * *

“Cleared of all charges” 

Bartemius Crouch had already begun to rise from his seat in the stands of the Wizengamont scarcely before the dreaded phrase had been announced. He kept his eyes low to the ground as he gathered his papers together. He stood and marched his way along the benches and out of the courtroom, trying to block out the low murmuring of his fellow members of the court as they began to pack up their things and follow his lead out of the benches.

From the centre of the hall below, a triumphant cackle echoed through the vast chamber. 

“See! What did I tell ya?” jeered the coarse voice of Mundungus Fletcher. “I ain’t never sold no dodgy cauldrons!” 

Crouch forced himself not to give him the attention he craved, but as he made his way out of the room (passing by the court scribe on his way to collect the transcript of the proceedings) it was impossible not to catch a glimpse from the corner of his eye of the defendant he had just been forced to clear of having sold the faulty batch of stolen cauldrons responsible for a mild but still damaging explosion in a Diagon Alley apothecary last week. 

Fletcher was something of a regular in the small courts of the Ministry of Magic, and the satisfaction of issuing the petty criminal with yet another fine for his misdeeds was something Crouch never failed to find satisfying. Occasions when the scruffy, ginger-haired wizard was able to slip through the Head of Magical Law Enforcement’s net were few and far between, but each defeat was never less irritating than the last.

Crouch was glad to see the back of him and the courtroom to boot. He had a long afternoon of small-fry trials ahead to look forward to, one irritating pretty crime after the other, and to lose the first case of the day to Mundungus Fletcher, of all people, was hardly starting as he meant to go on.

“Wilkes!” 

Crouch’s junior assistant, who was stood waiting in the foyer outside the courtroom for his boss, jumped at the sound of Crouch’s bark

“Yes, sir?” piped up the wiry-haired youth as he stood up soldier-straight at attention. 

“Write up these notes in full” Crouch thrust the roll of parchment that the court scribe had spent the duration of the hour-long trial frantically scribbling away at. The notes were rough vague recordings of what had transpired which would need to be copied out at length in a neat hand to be properly stored away in the Ministry records. A tedious job only fit for a junior member of staff just starting out. “I want the full report on my desk by six this evening”

“Yes, sir” Wilkes took the scroll and gave an eager nod. 

“Study it as you go. _Properly,_ this time” Crouch gave the lad a sharp look as he scuttled off to complete his task. 

Crouch shook his head as he watched the youth hurry off in the direction of the staircase in the corner of the foyer which wound back up though the levels of the Ministry to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 

The lad was attentive enough, but if he truly wished to get on in a career in magical law enforcement, he’d have to start learning to actually think of his feet rather than simply follow orders. It was simply not good enough to be able to offer no more opinion on how a guilty verdict was reached than to simply mumble “Because the court voted for it?” in an unconvincing tone. 

_If he cannot produce a credible explanation to justify a guilty verdict, he hasn’t got a hope in hell or making head nor tail of today’s farce,_ Crouch thought bitterly to himself as he marched across the marble floor.

He tugged at the high, stiff collar of his plum court robes and allowed his mind to wander towards the thought of a lunchtime pick-me-up in the Atrium bar. It was perhaps a tad early in the day for some tastes, but for Crouch, it was something of a tradition after having lost a court case to retreat to the seclusion of one of the bar’s more shadowy corners where he could soothe his bruised ego over a glass of finely-aged scotch. It helped to quench the burning sensation of defeat - and to build the courage to face the worried stares of his junior staff who would be trying to predict what sort of a mood he’d be in once he returned to his department.

He was in the middle of debating with himself whether the scale of today’s defeat justified ordering the 1869 label or if perhaps a good dose of the 1848 label was in order, when he was abruptly pulled from his thoughts by the sound of an irritatingly familiar voice. 

“I say, Crouch!” 

Letting out a sigh of irritation, Crouch reluctantly turned round to see the image of Cornelius Fudge hurrying across the hall to meet him, his ludicrous lime green bowler hat waving in the air to grab his attention. 

“Fudge” Crouch greeted the shorter wizard with a stiff nod and no more of a smile than he was offered. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

If Fudge had noticed the thinly-veiled sarcasm in Crouch’s words, he did not give any outward indication of it. 

“Yes, I just wanted to ask-” The portly wizard let out a heavy puff of breath and dabbed a handkerchief over his shining brow before replacing his bowler hat atop his head. Crouch forced himself not to grimace at the contrast of the garish green hat against Fudge’s deep burgundy court robes. “-if you’d be so good as to ensure that a copy of the report of this morning’s trial is sent up to my department by this evening. No later than seven o’clock, if you please” 

“Of course” Crouch gave a slight nod. “I will, naturally, ensure that you are provided with a copy of the report. As I do with every court case that is of your concern” 

Fudge’s mouth thinned a little at the obvious clip in Crouch’s tone. 

“In _theory,_ yes” Fudge’s brow furrowed disapprovingly. “In practice, however, I’m afraid to say that for the last three out of five cases my department was involved in, we did not receive the full report until a full two days day after the trial. On one occasion, we had to make several requests before the document was eventually provided a week later! I’m afraid it simply isn’t good enough” 

Crouch’s expression hardened as he looked down at the wizard who dared to take such a scolding tone with him. 

A fellow Head of Department Cornelius Fudge may be, but in the grand scheme of things, Crouch’s position as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement placed him firmly at the top of the pecking order - second only to the Minister of Magic herself, unofficially. 

As Head of the Department for Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, Fudge was by no means a lowly official in the Ministry ranks, but still one who, in Crouch’s mind at least, possessed no authority to speak to him in such a manner. 

“Very well,” he replied, icily. “I apologise if you’ve found my staff’s efficiency below your very _particular_ standards. I will ensure the report is delivered to you by this evening” 

“Very good” Fudge gave a nod of approval, his chest puffed out. 

Without deigning to offer a word of farewell, Crouch turned to leave, only to have his efforts thwarted mere seconds later by his unfortunate companion. 

“Ruddy awful business, all that in there with Fletcher”

Forcing himself to put thoughts of his longed-for scotch to the back of his mind once again, Crouch turned back to face Fudge. 

“Indeed” he offered shortly in reply. 

“Pure luck, of course, that alibi” Fudge continued, undeterred by Crouch’s distinct lack of interest in the conversation. “Fletcher’s a dab hand at all this by now, knows every last trick in the book”

“I daresay”

“Of course, we know that Fletcher simply left his true wand in the care of a confidant at the Black Griffin tavern in Huckleford Village on the day he purchased those cauldrons and used another’s as a decoy to secure an alibi, but can we prove it?” 

Fudge waved his arms and shrugged dramatically before continuing, relieving Crouch of the burden of composing a reply.

“Yes, most vexing indeed. It’s high time we lobbied for use of veritaserum in the civil courts, I say. Ethics assessment be damned, it simply is a case of needs must, for the likes of Fletcher who know how to play the system. Tracing one’s wand history simply isn’t enough, wouldn’t you say, Crouch?”

Crouch gave the slightest of nods and an agreeing half-smile in reply. With any luck, the pompous little wizard would take this hint and realise that even if Crouch was interested in discussing the ethical pros and cons of administering veritaserum to petty criminals, he was the last person Crouch was likely to seek the opinion of. 

Tuning out the noise as Fudge prattled on, Crouch discreetly glanced up at the golden clock fixed high atop the opposite wall. Almost one o’clock. He’d have to make it to the Atrium bar soon before all the best tables were taken up by parched employees searching for a lunchtime pick me up before their afternoon’s work. Slowly, he began to turn away.

“Fudge, I really must be-” 

“-quite the commotion it made when those cauldrons exploded, let me tell you!” Fudge gave no indication that he had even noticed his companion’s attempt to leave. “Quite a scene it caused. No fatalities, miraculously, but I’m certain I haven’t seen a debris field that wide since the Sirius Black incident” 

A spark of interest immediately lit up inside Crouch. 

“What did you say?” Crouch turned back to face Fudge. 

“The debris field” Fudge repeated, oblivious to the sudden spark of interest in his companion as he continued to ramble on. “In Diagon Alley, when the faulty batch of cauldrons went up. My goodness, what a mess! I daresay my staff are still working through the paperwork. Why, an accident of that size will fill enough rolls of parchment to repaper the whole-”

“You mentioned Sirius Black” Crouch spoke in an urgent but hushed tone. It wouldn’t do to be overheard talking about a _murderer_ in public, after all. 

Fudge’s expression darkened as Crouch took a step forward and loomed over him.

“Well I- I only spoke by way of comparison, of course” Fudge’s voice, at last, quietened and took on the nervous edge of one who wasn’t quite sure if he’d overstepped some unknown mark. “Merely to say that the damage caused by the explosion in Diagon Alley was comparable to the… incident, that day” 

Beneath the lime-green brim of his bowler hat, Fudge’s forehead began to shine with sweat once more. 

“You were there that day. The day Black was arrested” 

Crouch spoke mostly to remind himself of the long-disregarded fact rather than to ask for Fudge’s confirmation, but that didn’t stop the shorter wizard from seizing the opportunity to put in his own two sickles. 

“Of course” Fudge stood up straighter. “As a member of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, naturally I was there” 

Crouch suppressed the urge to let out a bemused smirk. Fudge could puff out his chest and put on as many airs and graces as he liked, but the reality was that three short years ago, he was a lowly junior employee in his department. Politics may have been a calling which had claimed him later in life than most, but that hadn’t stopped Cornelius from barging his way up through the ranks with a sense of determination which one could almost be tempted to call vulgar. 

But then, what could one expect from a Fudge? Pure of blood they may be, but one could hardly compare them to the likes of certain other families in the fold. Nevertheless, with this fresh nugget of information, Crouch found himself compelled to make an offer which, if someone had told him not even five minute ago that he’d be making, he’d have sworn them off as stark-raving mad.

“Mr Fudge, would you care to join me for a lunchtime drink?” Crouch asked, careful to keep his tone casual. “I daresay we both need one after that wretched trial”

Cornelius looked taken aback by the offer to say the least. The two men, as a rule, did not get on. It was no sort of secret either between themselves or indeed the wider members of the Ministry. Nevertheless, the temptation of a visit to the Atrium bar as the guest of the man widely accepted to be the Minister’s right hand proved too tempting to resist.

“Do you know, I think I would, rather” Fudge replied with a naustingly pleased smile.

Crouch forced himself to offer a rather more restrained smile in return.

“Very good” he replied with an approving nod. He gestured towards the great archway at the end of the foyer which led to the elevators. “Shall we?” 

As he led the way across the hall, being careful to always keep just enough distance between himself and Fudge to suggest to any passers-by that they might perhaps not be walking together, Crouch once again allowed his thoughts to wander towards precisely which drink would be most suitable to order. 

The 1869 label was certainly out of the running. If one wanted to loosen the tongue of one’s guest, he’d previously found that the 1851 was far more suited to the task.

* * *

The door to the library did not make a sound as Sirius pushed it open. For the first time in many years, since he was a small boy sneaking about the house on late-night adventures, he was glad of his mother’s insistence that no door in her house should omit as offensive a noise as a squeak. 

A sense of restlessness had driven him to leave the relative sanctuary of his bedroom in search of new walls to stare at, preferably ones which were not plastered with painful memories, but that didn’t mean he no longer wished to be alone. The last thing he wanted was to alert his mother to his movements about the house, particularly since he still hadn't bothered to get dressed. In truth, it was sheer luck (as well as his quick mental revision of each squeaky floorboard from his memory before setting out) that he had managed to avoid running into her already. 

With a quick glance either side of him to confirm he was indeed alone, he slipped into the room and eased the door closed behind him. 

Sirius walked slowly along the floor-length bookshelves lining the entire length of the wall - one of three such walls in the library, save for the all at the far end of the room housing the matching carved mahogany fireplace. Each shelf played host to a vast number of books, many of them re-prints of the original works, commissioned by members of the family throughout the years for their growing collection. Each book was bound in plush leather with their titles embossed on the spine in gold foil lettering which glinted in the candlelight. Not for the Blacks the heaving bookshelves over-stocked with well-thumbed, dog-eared volumes. Such a scruff specimen of a book would never be granted a place in this library.

Though it housed what amounted to a mere slice of the family’s entire collection scattered throughout their properties, the library of Grimmauld Place was as much a showroom for the works it displayed as it was a place of study. The room was kept immaculate, every surface spotless. Any guest who happened to enter the library would be made immediately aware that the Black family prided itself greatly on their collection of great works by worthy wizards throughout the ages.

 _Bullshit, the lot of it,_ Sirius seethed as his eyes fell upon the sickeningly familiar golden lettering gleaming back at him - _Of Might and Muggles: A Study of Magical Superiority._

Feeling the growing temptation to throw the book into the fireplace, he forced himself to turn away. He hated to admit it, but he was worn out after his morning’s encounter with his mother. As satisfying it would be to see the book burn, he would need significantly more energy than he currently had at his disposal to combat the rage his actions would undoubtedly ignite within Walburga Black. 

Turning to look across to the far corner of the room, Sirius’s eyes fell upon the object which he had deliberately avoided since he entered the room, in spite of it being the very reason he’d felt so drawn to this room in the first place.

The grand piano.

The reflection of the flickering flames of the fireplace bounced off the highly-polished ebony. The instrument almost seemed to gleam where it sat in a corner, though somehow still the centrepiece of the room. Not a speck of dust rested upon its surface, not a crease to be seen on the deep-red velvet of the seat. The piano, as with everything else in this library - in this house - was on display.

Sirius wasn’t sure what precisely had triggered the long-disregarded memory which had called him here to come flooding back into his mind. Perhaps it was his brain’s desperate longing for anything to combat the sheer numbness of hours spent laying flat out on his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking. Or perhaps it was the house’s airborne poison seeping deeper into him, sinking through to his very bones until he couldn’t ignore the memories which it carried, no matter how painful they may be. 

But for whatever the reason behind it, when he looked at the piano, only one noise filled Sirius’s mind. 

Sirius glared down into his reflection in the piano’s gleaming surface as he attempted to block out the delicate, perfectly-rhythmic notes his brother tapped out on the keys. 

_“Excellent, Regulus, very well done!” gushed their piano tutor, beaming down at his young student. “Not a note out of place - you have clearly been practicing”_

_Sirius rolled his eyes. At least his little twerp of a brother had the good sense to go bright red with embarrassment at the praise. Sirius couldn’t imagine being proud of being good at something as pointless as piano. How sad._

_“Sirius, do not lean on the piano like that. You’ll mark it”_

_Shooting a moody look at his tutor, Sirius reluctantly took his elbows off of the piano and stood up straight, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his robes._

_“Now, it is your turn,” said the tutor. He gestured for Regulus to stand up and for Sirius to take his seat. The younger boy obeyed instantly. “We shall see if you have been practicing as diligently as your brother”_

_“No”_

_The tutor’s eyes narrowed. Regulus’s widened._

_“I’m sorry?”_

_“I said no. I don’t want to play”_

_The tutor sighed. He had long-since given up attempting to hide his displeasure with the elder and far more troublesome of his two young students._

_“Enough of this silliness, now. You must play so that I can assess your progress”_

_“Well maybe I don’t_ want _you to assess my progress”_

_“That may be so, but I’m afraid that my purpose here is not to fulfil your wants. It is to teach you to play the piano. And the sooner you sit down and play for me, the sooner we shall both be finished with today’s lesson”_

_Sirius groaned loudly in frustration as he finally stomped around the piano and flung himself down onto the seat. He stared down at the black-and-white keys and attempted to shut out the fact that the tutor was standing right beside him, the old wizard’s critical gaze pouring over his every move. Biting the inside of his lip, Sirius slowly positioned his fingers above the required keys for the first note and began to play._

_He played slower than Regulus had. His hands moved uncertainly over the keys, occasionally not quite pressing firmly enough on them to create a proper sound. Sirius struggled on, willing himself to get to the end of the music sheet. He made it just over halfway through the piece - and then he pressed a wrong note._

_Sirius saw red._

_“This is bloody stupid!” he screamed angrily and slammed both of his hands down on the keyboard, hard. The piano let out a horrendous noise of protest at the rough handling, giving both the tutor and Regulus enough of an unpleasant shock to distract them whilst Sirius stormed out of the library, making a run for it back upstairs to his room where he could let out his tears of frustration before he would inevitably be summoned by his mother to apologise for his behaviour._

Sirius’s fingertips brushed against the ivory keys as the memories of his disastrous childhood piano lessons flowed through his mind. He never did truly develop the knack for the instrument. Perhaps he might have made a decent enough musician if he’d put in the practice, but he’d never found the willpower to try. 

The musical talent within the family had never been his.

“He had such a natural talent for the piano” 

Though softly-spoken, the sudden sound of his mothers voice gave Sirius such a start that he flinched - and pressed down hard on the key his finger rested upon. The sharp sound rang throughout the silent room.

Like a child caught reaching for a plate of biscuits, Sirius snatched his hand away from the piano and buried it deep into his dressing gown pocket.

He looked round to find Walburga standing in the library doorway. He hadn’t even heard her approaching footsteps, let alone opening the door open, so deep had he been in his thoughts. 

She was staring not at him, however, but at the piano. Walburga’s eyes gazed upon it, absent-mindedly. She seemed to be lost in thought herself. Sirius supposed that excused him from having to provide her with a response, not that he had one to offer to begin with.

Walburga took several slow, gliding steps forward into the library, approaching the piano. She stood before it, on the opposite side to Sirius. At last, she lifted her head to look at him.

“Music was not quite as much your forte, if I recall” 

It was faint, but there was a trace of amusement to be found in Walburga’s dream-like expression. 

Sirius felt his cheeks tingle with redness at the memory of his many angry outbursts over his inability to master the instrument.

“I never liked it much, anyway” he mumbled in reply. His stared down at the keyboard. Even now, he could still see those same slender fingers moving gracefully up and down the black and white keys, artfully manipulating them with perfect, delicate precision to make the chunk of painted wood and strings sing so beautifully in a way that Sirius never could. “Not as much as he did” 

A silence followed, broken only by the slight rustling of the full sleeves of Walburga’s gown as she lifted a hand to rest atop the piano.

“He’d stopped playing, you know. In the end” 

Sirius couldn’t help but look up at this. He was taken aback by his mother’s words. The piano had been one of his brother’s few redeeming qualities. Irritatingly better at it than his brother, he may have been, but Sirius had always harboured a small sense of secret admiration for his brother’s genuine love of the instrument. When Regulus had sat down to tap out a few tunes behind the closed door of the library, he had played for himself; to have fun, to relax, to escape. Not to put on a show for the sake of the family image. It had assured Sirius that his brother had not entirely sacrificed his own wants and desires for the greater legacy of the Black dynasty.

But he had given it up, after all.

“He’d lost all interest in it,” Walburga continued, her voice quiet. Her gaze returned to stare down at the piano. “He’d lost interest in most things. After your father-”

“I’m going upstairs” 

Sirius walked quickly around the piano and out of the room without a backward glance. The library suddenly felt stiflingly small. It was a mistake, coming down here. He couldn't handle it. He needed air. He needed to get out. 

  
He needed to _not think._

Sirius walked quickly along the corridor leading away from the library, half-expecting his mother to screech her demands for him to return until properly dismissed from her presence, but wasting no time in waiting to find out if such an order would come. He hurried up the staircase which would lead him back to the relative sanctuary of his bedroom, his heavy footsteps having melted into the soft padding of paws and scraping of claws against floorboards before he was even halfway there.

* * *

  
Sitting snugly at the far end of the Atrium with a view of the golden fountain, the Lumos Bar, named for the way its gleaming surfaces almost seemed to glow, served as a meeting point and welcome retreat to those who toiled away their work hours within the Ministry of Magic. With its golden fixtures, black marble floor and glittering shattered effect glass backdrop behind the bar itself, it fit perfectly like a puzzle piece with the overall grandeur of the Atrium. 

The circular bar sat like an island amidst a sea of tables and chairs, each of varying sizes but all with the same black marble surfaces polished to a high sheen with golden rims, and each spread far enough apart that a conversation could be kept reasonably private without one having to go through the suspicion-raising spectacle of casting a silencing charm around one's table. 

A key feature within any drinking establishment attempting to appeal itself to the key cogs which kept the government ticking.

As Crouch and Fudge arrived, the bar was just beginning to fill with its usual lunchtime clientele. The single bartender remained unphased by the steadily growing crowd of customers vying for his attention all around him. No sooner had an order been called out to him than he had given an artful flick of his wand towards the various shakers, stirrers, glasses and bottles from the vast display behind him which quickly sprang into action, joining the already crowded bar surface where an array of other drink were in the process of being made at any one time, each of varying degrees of complexity - and value.

“Gentlemen” the bartender greeted the pair with a nod as Crouch led the way through the crowd which instinctively parted to make way for them both. Being second only to the Minister did have its perks. “What can I get you?” 

“A glass of the 1851, if you would,” said Crouch. He had no need to explain further. A bartender’s greatest asset was to know the preferences of his best customers by heart. “A double”

If it was early in the day to be drinking at all, it certainly was for a double. But previous experiences of this sort had taught Crouch to lead by example. And besides, he had a strong stomach for hard liquor.

“Coming right up” The bartender gave his wand a flick and turned to Fudge. “And for you, sir?” 

Fudge’s eyes narrowed for a moment at the display of bottles lined up along the shelves behind the bar, considering.

“Am I to take it that the 1851 is a whiskey?” 

_Well it certainly isn’t pumpkin juice._

“Scotch, to be precise” Crouch replied, stiffly. “A personal favourite” 

“Very well, I shall take one myself” Fudge nodded towards the bar surface where Crouch’s drink was now in the process of being prepared. “A double for me, as well. On the rocks, if you please” 

Crouch fought the urge to cringe outright. Even the bartender looked uneasy as he waved his wand in the direction of the ice storage. To desecrate such a fine, expensive scotch - and at his expense, no less! - was almost painful to witness. But Crouch was here with an intention, and it wouldn’t do to scare away the man he wanted details from by taking him to task on his lack of taste before they’d even made it to the table. 

“My usual table, if you would” Crouch told the bartender with a nod to the two-seater table in the far corner of the bar. 

“Of course” 

The bartender flicked his wand towards their finished drinks, sending them floating up off of the bar. Two empty glasses quickly took their place, ready to fulfil the needs of the next wanting customers.

The drinks floated alongside the two men as they crossed the length of the bar, lowering themselves gently down on the table top as they took their seats. 

“I must say, I’m not usually partial to a lunchtime tipple, but a morning like that certainly does leave one with a craving!” Fudge shot Crouch a joking smile as he lifted his glass and took a sip.

“Yes, it certainly does” Crouch lifted his own glass, giving an awkward cough to cover the atrocious sound of the ice knocking about in his companion’s glass. The scotch slid down his throat, its fiery burn giving him an instant comfort. 

He glanced around him at the steadily-filling tables, each one occupied by a group quite clearly locked in their respective conversations or solitary thoughts. No one so much as glimpsed their way. There was a peculiar sense of security to be found in a crowded room. One might be tempted to think that to be surrounded by people would be the worst time to have a private conversation. But in Crouch’s experience, the opposite often proved to be true. 

“Remarkable, what you said about the debris field” Crouch remarked, staring idly into his glass as he held it up to the light. 

“I’m sorry?” Fudge, who sat up straight as a pin, looked up from over the rim of his own glass.

“When Fletcher’s cauldrons exploded. You said they left quite the mess. A terrible bother for your department, I imagine” 

Presented with the slightest opportunity to discuss his own affairs, Fudge required no further prompting to launch into a spiel. 

“Oh yes, indeed it was!” Fudge took another generous sip of his scotch. “Did rather a lot of damage to the nearby shops. The insurance paperwork was certainly a headache. Do you know that Eylope’s Owl Emporium is demanding compensation for a Blakiston’s Fish Owl which escaped through a smashed window? The only one in Britain, he claims!” 

Crouched feigned surprise. 

“Goodness, really?” 

“Oh yes. A rather impressive blast, it must be said, one can hardly imagine anything like-” 

“But you can”

Fudge paused, his glass raised in mid-air in an attempt at another sip. His eyes narrowed in puzzlement.

“I’m sorry?”

Crouch leaned back in his seat and gave a casual smile. 

“Do forgive me” he offered with a light chuckle. “I only meant to say that you rather suggested, back down in the courts, that you could imagine something like it” 

A flicker of alarm crossed Fudge’s already rapidly reddening face. Like a tiger crouching in the grass, Crouch planned his next move with careful precision. He took another sip of his scotch, pleased to see Fudge follow his example. 

“Specifically, you mentioned that the debris field was comparable to the day of the Sirius Black incident” 

Fudge tensed instantly. His eyes widened with alarm and he snapped his head about, as though expecting every ear in the room to have suddenly turned towards them.

“Well, I- Of course when I said- I only meant-” 

Crouch silenced his spluttering with a light-hearted chuckle. 

“Really, Fudge, there's no need to look so alarmed” he remarked. “I was merely taken aback, is all. I’d quite forgotten that you were there that day” 

Fudge had regained his composure. He sat up even straighter in his seat. 

“I envy your ability to forget such things,” he said, quietly. He knocked back the last of his drink, clearly seeking comfort in the numbing powers of the alcohol. “I’m afraid I myself have been unable to do so. What happened that day was…”

Fudge shook his head dismissively. 

“Awful thing, it was” Crouch swigged the last of his drink. “Terrible. That poor wizard. Peterson, wasn’t it? Or Pettison” 

“Pettigrew” 

“Ah yes, of course” Crouch sighed. “A sad end indeed” 

“Sad?” Fudge scoffed. “My dear man, it was horrific! Pettigrew and those Muggles were blown to pieces. There was scarcely anything _left_ of the poor boy! Only a finger” 

“Good lord. Shocking, isn't it? To think that anyone in their right mind could be capable of such violence” 

“Merlin's beard, Crouch, no one who saw what I did that day could have accused Black of having been _in his right mind_ ” 

Crouch eyed his companion with interest, feigning ignorance. 

“Really? Of course, I myself wasn’t there that day. One could be forgiven for wondering truly how bad it could have been, if one is not in possession of all the facts…” 

A man of sharper wits might have picked up on the sly hinting masked within Crouch’s words. But Fudge, who’s cheeks were now flushed red with scotch, needed little prompting to launch into a topic of which he viewed himself to be the most knowledgeable. 

“It was carnage” Fudge began, his tone tragic. “Utter carnage, I tell you. The street was blown apart, with an enormous crater right in the middle of the road. A blast that size was truly a remarkable feat of magic, sheer power in its rawest form. Those poor people…” 

He shook his head with a mournful sigh. 

“The Muggles?” Crouch asked, careful to keep his voice casual in spite of his unwavering desire for more. 

“Yes, twelve of them, all together. Or so I was told, later on. It was hard to count them, at the time, what with all the missing-” 

Fudge cut himself off as a shiver overcame him. He waved a hand and looked away. 

“I’m sorry, it is still quite hard to-”

“Not at all” Crouch interceded. He nodded to Fudge’s empty glass “Would you care for another?”

“Perhaps I ought to,” Fudge nodded. “Purely medicinal, of course. Steady the nerves, so to speak” 

“Indeed” Crouch waved a hand towards the bartender, who nodded in understanding. From their table, Crouch could see two fresh crystal glasses floating down from the shelves. Less than a minute later, they floated over to their table, replacing the empty glasses which vanished in an instant. 

Crouch noted, with approval, that this time, both scotches were served neat. He made a mental note to add a galleon tip for the bartender to his tab.

“Thank you” Fudge raised his glass towards Crouch before taking a hearty sip of the amber liquid. 

“Not at all” Crouch took a sip of his own. “It’s the least I can do, what with bringing up such a discussion”

“Oh no, no, quite all right. It wouldn’t do to truly allow oneself to forget such a thing. It does have something of a lasting effect. Reminds one to be grateful of the way things are, now”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, I mean-” Fudge gave a half-hearted glance around him before he continued, his voice lowered. “Of course, what happened that day was truly awful. But at least one has the comfort of knowing that the criminal behind it all is now safely locked away because of it” 

“Sirius Black” Crouch spoke grimly, his face fighting an automatic grimace as he spoke the name which had haunted him over the last week. 

At the sound of the name, Fudge flinched as violently as if Crouch had spoken the name of You-Know-Who himself. 

“Yes,” Fudge replied, lowly. “I tell you, Crouch, Black was like a man possessed, that day. The carnage he’d created was nothing short of horrifying. And he was standing there, right in the middle of it all, laughing. A deep, from-the-heart laugh. I’d never heard the like!” 

Crouch shook his head, thoughtfully. He could recall having read reports from that day regarding Black’s behaviour. How he showed no remorse. But to read it on parchment was one thing, to hear it described in detail was quite another.

“The boy was unhinged,” Fudge continued. His expression was dark. “Insane. There is no other way to describe it. Laughing like a demented hyena the entire time. Practically bent double, he was. The Aurors scarcely needed any effort to apprehend him”

The image was startling. Black had been rather young at the time, Crouch could recall. Twenty, twenty-one, perhaps? Hardly any age. It was a staggering thought, to think that such barbarity could be committed by one so young- 

Crouch tossed back the majority of his drink in one in an attempt to stifle a deep, gut-wrenching pain which suddenly took hold within him. 

When he looked up from his glass, he found Fudge staring across at him with a look of mild concern. 

“My apologies,” Crouch offered, stiffly. “It’s all rather shocking to hear” 

“Shocking to hear, even more shocking to witness, let me tell you” Beneath the mournful tone, there was a small flicker of smugness in the undertone of Fudge’s voice.

A spark of annoyance flared within Crouch. Fudge could never resist an urge to claim the upper hand. It didn’t matter what his opponent said, he always had to go one better, to remind Crouch that _he_ knew more. 

“Yes, well” Crouch cleared his throat, stiffly. “As you say, at least some good came out of it. Black is now safely in Azkaban, after all” 

Was there a genuine satisfaction in knowing that Fudge incorrectly believed himself to be the most knowledgeable of the two on this particular topic, or was it simply the scotch beginning to take hold? 

“Oh yes, indeed” Fudge agreed with a satisfied smirk. “Quite the downfall for the Blacks, to lose their last remaining heir in such a shameful way. When one thinks of how damned lofty the lot of them used to be...”

Crouch, taken aback, narrowed his eyes at Fudge, who gave a slight chuckle as he raised his glass to his now thoroughly-reddened face. 

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I rather get the impression that the Blacks might not be particularly close acquaintances of yours”

If he hadn’t had a generous helping of scotch inside him, Fudge would likely have puffed himself up as tall as possible and have insisted on being offended by such a prying remark from a man he made no apology for not regarding as a friend. 

Crouch knew he’d made an excellent choice in the 1851 label. It had yet to let him down. 

Fudge gave a scoff into his glass. 

“I’ll not deny it,” he said. “Between you and I, I often found them a tad vulgar for my tastes. Far too showy. Rather bad taste to make such a show of one’s wealth, wouldn’t you agree?”

_As if you wouldn’t do exactly the same - if your family vault was half as full as theirs._

“And then of course, after all that business with Eliza-”

“Who?”

“Eliza. My sister” 

“Ah yes, of course” Crouch replied, feigning the voice of someone who knew or cared about his Fudge’s relations. Nonetheless, he was curious for details. “Forgive me, but exactly what business did the Blacks have with your sister?”

Fudge gave a scoff of annoyance. 

“Why, they only made an absolute public mockery of her! She was betrothed, originally, to one of them. Cygnus, Pollux’s eldest boy” 

Crouch’s eyebrows raised in surprise. 

“Goodness, I had no idea” 

“Yes, well, my father did his best to try and hush up the whole sorry affair, but you know how it is. These things tend to have a way of leaking into the public ear”

Crouch glared off to the side. Having one’s public affairs publically gossiped over was a feeling with which Crouch could sympathise. 

“So what happened, then?” Crouch asked, casually, safe in the assumption that Fudge was by now too far gone to put too much thought into what he was being asked.

“Black turned out to be an unfaithful little toe rag, that’s what happened! No sooner was the betrothal contract drawn up than Cygnus was caught messing about with the Rosiers’ youngest girl!”

“Never!” 

“Oh yes! Well, of course, that was that. The Blacks as good as tore up the contract without a second thought, hurried the pair into marriage in case of any unfortunate consequences and left my poor sister thoroughly humiliated by the whole ordeal”

Crouch shook his head. He had to admit, the scandal of a public jilting was a harsh hand to be dealt. But from the Blacks, he expected nothing less. Never a thought for those around them, only ever their own interests at heart - whatever the consequences.

“I say, that is awful”

“Indeed” Fudge sighed. “If only the silly girl hadn’t gotten ahead of herself, giggling with her friends about the engagement so soon, getting herself all excited. It may have softened the blow a tad”

“Women” 

The two men shared a very masculine chuckle, rolling their eyes. 

“But still, every cloud, as they say,” said Crouch. “At least she’s not tied to that wretched family now. One more?” He nodded to their two empty glasses. 

Fudge considered for a moment before giving a nod. 

“Oh, go on, then. Why not?” 

Judging by the way the wizard was starting to slouch sideways in his seat, several potential reasons sprang to mind, but that was of little concern to Crouch. He waved to the bartender, and the drinks were on their way. 

“Yes, you are right, of course,” said Fudge. “Eliza got over it, in the end. Father managed to set her up rather nicely with one of the Abbotts. All for the best, in the end. I dread to think what it would have done to her to be tied to that family - to that maniac”

Crouch observed the dark look that overtook Fudge, even in his current state, as he referenced Sirius again. His encounter with the young Black had truly left its mark upon him. If Crouch had instigated this meeting with the intention of refreshing his memory as to why Sirius Black could not be allowed to reclaim his freedom, he had succeeded. When he thought of the images Fudge described; the blown-apart street, the ruined bodies, the single finger… And Sirius Black at the heart of it all, bent double with laughter.

There was not a shadow of a doubt left in his mind as to what had to be done.

“Well, then. Let us be glad that Sirius Black will never again see the light of day” said Crouch as their two fresh drinks replaced the empty glasses. “Azkaban is where he belongs, and Azkaban is where he will stay, until the day he dies and beyond. Rotting in peace”

Fudge gave a chuckle as he took up his newly-arrived glass of scotch. 

“I’ll drink to that!” 

Crouch raised his glass and clinked it to Fudge’s. 

“To rotting in peace” 

“To rotting in peace” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Insert "I'm sorry it's been ages" message here* 
> 
> It has been almost two months to the day since I last updated. An unintentionally long absence, but alas, life is a thing, and as much as I wish this story is all I had to focus on, it is not. That being said, I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts on this latest instalment. I am very much still in the thick of this project, even if updates are less regular than I'd like, and hope the next gap in updates won't be quite as long. Happy 2021! 
> 
> Chat to me on Tumblr - https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mariekavanagh

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my newest and most extensive project to date. 
> 
> After many months of planning, I'm glad to finally be able to publish this fic for your enjoyment. This will be my longest fic to date (hardly an achievement when you consider how many one-shots I've written) and I hope it will prove to you as interesting and enjoyable a story to read as it is for me to create. 
> 
> Please consider leaving a review along the way. Your comments truly are the fuel that keeps me writing. 
> 
> Chat to me on Tumblr :) - https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mariekavanagh


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